Two Red Roses Across The Moon
by SpaceAnJL
Summary: The final part of Thanksgiving. Double-size chapter, for all you patient readers. And the impatient one - yes, I'm looking at you, FiveRoses...
1. Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

A/N : I started plotting this shortly after I saw the first few episodes here in the UK. It's purely my idea of what might be going to happen, and I thought of it before I even heard anything about season 2. I have dated notebooks to prove it. The new agent originally had a different name and face. Joss Whedon already seems to keep his spare ideas in my head – now it looks like Bruno Heller has joined in. I've only seen up to the S1 finale, and I'm deliberately avoiding the reading of any spoilers for S2. This is the future in the AnJLverse, as 'Scarlet Threads' is the past.-

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- with thanks to FiveRoses and Madaboutthementalist, for their (im)patience and encouragement.-

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Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit....

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There had been a little too much honesty in their staged fight.

If they could be just Patrick and Teresa, there would be no need to fight. But there is a whole world of restrictions and vows, policies and promises, old loyalties and bloody vendettas. He wears a ring, she wears a badge. And what those things symbolize stand between them.

"_I've had it with you and your egotistical crap! This – this isn't about justice or the law. This is about you and your wounded pride. I'm done with it!"_

Sheer fear in him that this may indeed be the case, one day. That his ego, his quest for vengeance, will crash headlong into that belief in justice, that strength of hers. But without the rage to drive him, what is he? And does she really think (is she really right) that this is all because he is locked in some twisted combat, with a faceless opponent who mocks him?

_...hands scrabbling at the wall, a feverish muttering, got to get the face just right so that he can talk to it, ask it, demand to know why , plead and scream and beat with his fists until the kind voices come to take the pain away, silver needles turning out the lights in the memory palace..._

He needs a purpose, and the empty words of the law are not enough.

"_Can't you see there's people who care about you, who need you? You're being selfish and childish. And I want you to stop it."_

People. Oh yes. One person, certainly. She was tired, and the pain in her eyes tore at him. He's finally broken through that motherly pity, that control. And in destroying that barrier, he's destroyed more than that, pushing her away, even as she says the thing he has so wanted to hear.

He had lied to Sophie. Told her that he could be healed, that she could fix him.

He had told Lisbon the truth. He would like to stop, to step into her arms and be whole. But that simply isn't how the world works.

He is broken, and he needs to be, shards of himself to goad himself on, deserves to be, because he failed so utterly to protect those that he loved.

And then Tanner had pointed a gun at her, and there was no time for thought at all.

_...weight of the metal in his hands, smell of the shot, his body doing what his mind will not grasp..._

He's killed the wrong man. For the wrong woman.

Even as he looks upon what he has done, the choking, the light in those dark eyes fading the furthest way away, in the echo of a madman's laugh...

_...Is this what it will feel like? Because he doesn't feel anything..._

They are polite, distant in the sheriff's office, bewildered and shocked by the secret face of one of their own. He does not notice, does not even care when they tell him that the State will not be filing charges against him. One of the officers uses the term 'righteous kill', and is hastily hushed.

Righteous. He can live with that.

The world happens around him, night turning to day with that huge, impersonal carelessness. People live, die and suffer, and the sun still rises.

Turns it over in his mind, on that silent drive, sitting beside an officer, conscious that behind him, she sits, internal turmoil of her own, but locked away, to help and comfort Maya Plaskett, who has at least seen her tormentor stopped, repaid in full.

He can't regret killing the man. Now he truly knows that he can.

Another father gets to welcome home his little girl. (But only one, only half of the whole, and how will she fare, one half of her life gone, a space beside her always filled with a ghost?) A family in their grief, and himself outside, and looking in.

_...His life. One grave lost somewhere in the midwest. One in a cemetery in Florida, plastic lilies and false sentiments. And one behind a marble slab, behind closed doors. He hates the idea of her being shut away from the sunshine. But at least they are together. That little box was too small to be on its own, and she was always scared of the dark... Himself, rather fragile and slack in the face, accompanied by Dr Sophie Miller and a bland, calm orderly, leaving flowers on the steps, because they'll only open the doors for family, and they have made it so very clear that he no longer counts. Their grief turned to hard anger, bitter words..._

He cannot be there, cannot watch. Has to walk, lose himself in motion.

He had truly thought himself lost, damned, beyond the reach of hope. Deliberately turning his back upon it. Prepared to kill. Prepared to die.

Then the broken pieces shifted, fell into new patterns, kaleidoscope of his life re-ordering itself. Seconds to change the world forever.

He can lose his own life, but he cannot lose hers.

He can try and rationalize it. Scourge himself for betrayal, weakness. And there is nothing that can explain away the fact. Today, the sun still shines on a world with Teresa Lisbon in it, because his world without her would be a new hell.

The dead hold him. But so does she. Caught between two worlds.

And still he cannot quiet the one small triumphant note in the chaos of his mind. She cares.

(Fingers pull the fruit from the tree.)

Teresa cares about him.

And for the rest of his life, the scent of oranges will always be linked to that thought.


	2. The Way of the World

The Way of the World

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That face on the wall above Rosalind's bed. She'd had to rinse her mouth after seeing that, still her instinctive heave. The woman was still serene, perhaps believing Jane's false words, that Roy Talliaferro was an innocent, perhaps clinging to that belief because the alternative was too horrible. More than one type of blindness. A woman can believe anything that a man she loves tells her, she knows.

She couldn't haul him back into the car by main force – well, she probably could, but the damage between them would be irreparable. She would have to hurt him to do it, and with what reason? If Rosalind chooses to let him stay and listen to her play, then there is nothing she can do. She has no music herself; her place is, as always, to do the drudgery, the leg-work, the things that must be done, when no-one else wants to do them.

Duty is a very poor thing to keep you warm, in the long drives between places. Not used to driving solo any more, the seat beside her empty. Grown used to his presence, in her work, in her life. She has to take the evidence back to Sacramento, co-ordinate the search for the store. You cannot point the finger at a fellow law enforcement officer based on chewing gum. They have to have more solid proof. Yet...she has known Jane too long to discount his observations. Even coloured by his desperate need, they still have force and clarity.

All too easy to fight with him, let a little of that frustration out. Too few of them to do what needs to be done, unable to use the resources of the county. She cannot order a cordon round the address, not without alerting the sheriff.

And so - she is going to have to play a dangerous game. She puts herself in harm's way to protect the innocent. Even when the innocent don't want to be protected, are recklessly determined to get themselves killed. It seems that she can, in fact, lie to Jane, that he is so caught up in his revenge, that he does not stop to consider that whilst he might mean every word of his vow to kill Red John, she meant every word of her vow to stop him.

Did he really honestly think that she would leave him on his own? He has no idea how hard it was to walk away and leave him, and that was only a suspicion. He can rage all he likes, but he'll still be alive to rage. He may not value his life, but she does, and if he won't take care of it, she will take that choice away from him. He's not the only one who can be selfish.

Waiting outside that farmstead, sick with the realization that she was becoming the lone crusader of justice that she was trying to prevent Jane being. But there is no time to worry about that, now. Confirmation comes, and she has to move, cannot wait for the team, cannot wait for Jane's nemesis to appear. Cannot leave him at the mercy of a lunatic with a shotgun.

Hardy...Tanner, dear god, had not expected her, had certainly not expected her to fight. But when that hatch bangs down, the terror of it, she is already moving, she cannot lose, and she is every bit as ruthless as any mother wolf fighting for her cubs. If that evil bastard comes down here after them, she has to have this one down and out of the fight, decks clear. Because she will still have two opponents to contend with.

She had thought she had cleared the rooms. Sick sensation at the idea that he was moving ahead of her. Always one step ahead. Cameras and computers and mind games. Clever and determined, and just as intent on this conflict as Jane is.

Relief of hearing Cho and Rigsby, flood of light on her face that does not mean death. Maya, alive, if not completely unharmed, clinging to her. Jane's face, tight and tired.

It is the nearest to true anger with her that she has ever seen in him. And she truly knows the depths of the damage in him, now, as she had only suspected before. So, tired and shaken, she'd let slip something she never meant to. And he'd looked away. Looked back with honest pain, and pushed her away. After everything, he still won't, can't make that step. And she can't make it for him.

She had not expected anything else, really, that uncalculated revelation shocking them both, things better left unsaid. But it still hurt, more than it should. That pain in his eyes, the genuine regret in what he knew was a rejection. Flat weariness in his tone, as she tries to find some crumb of comfort – he truly does not care that they saved Maya, that she saved him, and there is no way to reach past that imposed indifference.

Oh, of course she's going to be angry. Stupid, blind, self-pitying idiot. Just because he doesn't think he can be fixed, doesn't mean she wouldn't try. You can't stop caring about someone even when they are being selfish, even when they reveal how lost they really are. Needing them to be challenging and different, just _there_, aggravating and themselves.

So she leaves him behind his walls, turns back to the ordered world of her job. He can sit and sink himself in misery, but they have saved a life, they have information and evidence and solid facts with which to work. More to her world than one sad, selfish man. There will have to be.

His world is a simple, stark place, vengeance and self-interest. She lives amongst people, sees a more complicated web. Has seen too many would-be suicides fight against a darkness they thought they would embrace, and seen too many people who never meant to kill, standing in the ruins of their own lives. Perhaps it is because he has always been a showman, that he finds it so difficult to be a part of the crowd. But nothing can live or exist in isolation. She has seen him being drawn back into the living world, step by unwilling step, each case they solve, each day he works with them. Small things – pizza, chess, the gym. No longer playing to an audience with them, but just being. And there is the whole strangeness of their own...friendship, meals and movies and unacknowledged feelings, what could have been, now lying in pieces.

But - things can be mended. There may always be cracks, but if you have the pieces, you can at least try. Not yet, though. Not while she is still raw from it. When the anger and humiliation fade, she knows that she will be able to lock this away, as she has locked away so much else, and they can at least work together. Find out if there is anything that can be salvaged from the wreckage.

And then.

Stark terror and disbelief, when that shot went off, and she was still standing.

Patrick Jane has just saved her life.

He's killed. He's shot a man. She can't fix that. That's something that there is no going back from. The only hope was that blank revulsion, the horror in his face, as he'd flung the shotgun away. (She will not think about whether he would have pulled that trigger for anyone else.) His face, white and stricken, as the twisted giggling died away in blood, and there was nothing she could do.

He doesn't want her to reach out to him, has made that clear. So all she can do is to exert every ounce of influence she has, sheer force of her will to protect him from the consequences of that action, until he finds his own way past it. Still fighting for him, even as he sits, unable to fight for himself. She knows why she does it, and she hates herself, but love is a stupid, inconvenient thing, and it asks no permission, goes where it will.

He quite simply gets up and follows her when the time comes to take Maya home, still no words. They let him, still not quite able to comprehend what is going on, who this man is. Puzzled deputy has to restrain his own curiosity, aware of the presence of Maya Plaskett, and they are both grateful.

They will not talk on their own drive back. But he will be there. Both of them still alive, in a vastly altered world.

She stands in the sunshine, watching a family try and pull themselves back together, and waits for him to come back to her.


	3. Change Your Mind

-on the drive back to Sacramento, after...-

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Change Your Mind

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Not the first journey they have spent, wrapped in thought and wracked with indecision. Something curiously comforting in the very awkwardness of it.

Her voice jolts him.

"You'll have to see the CBI psychiatrist..."

"What?"

"I'll have to see him. It's just policy after a shooting." She keeps her voice deliberately off-hand, does not look at him. "You go in, you tell him a few appropriate things, he writes it up, and you're done."

"You know how I feel about psychiatrists." Beginning to burn.

"Don't fight me on this. Minelli will not let you continue in the field without it."

"I'm not an agent." No longer that pale, silent shell, returning spark in his eyes.

"You're...part of a team. Even if you don't act like it." Acid snap.

Alive in their anger, because it is warm and vital, and so much better than cold despair. He wants to rage, wants to tell her not to waste her time on him, and then dreads her answer, that she no longer will. She wants to beat her fists against his chest, and scream at him for even daring to think of leaving her, for being so honest. A deep breath.

"Killing someone changes you, Jane."

"I'm the same man I was yesterday." Even he doesn't believe that.

"No. You're not." Flat conviction.

He remembers...a motel room in Napa, two people dead and her green eyes wide with shock, himself turning from the sight, horrified and unable to find words. Cold chill, the unknown number of times she has faced this thing before, now vivid in his own experience.

Blood on his hands, slick and cooling, as that laugh bubbled away to nothing...

_(It could have been her, and what price your vengeance then?)_

Eating an orange on an empty stomach was not wise.

"Lisbon...?"

One look, and she pulls the car over.

He has comforted her through sickness before, and how can she do less? As much as she dares, fingers against the weave of his jacket, light touch.

Ache in him, as she draws her hand away, but she is rummaging in the car, finds him a bottle of water. She is still looking after him. He's a cruel, selfish idiot, and he does not deserve her, but he's damned if he'll let her go.

"Still watching my back."

"It's my job."

Quietly, firmly, she is putting up her barriers against him, and pain lances across him before he is prepared for it. He cannot have found her, only to to have her leave him in the same moment. He will not accept that. One quick step, and his hands on her shoulders.

"I nearly lost you." Words come fast and hard, voice low. "I can't let that happen. I _won't_."

He could hold her with a fingertip, his gaze alone. The fight goes out of her, leaves a small, tired woman with over-bright eyes.

Not as simple as asking forgiveness. What has he done to be forgiven, except not be ready to take a step neither of them are quite prepared to face yet? And for her – she betrayed his trust, but could he really have expected her to let him die?

It is a quick, hard embrace, assurance of life and warmth, a thing of surprise and joy and pain. One brief moment where they let the barriers down. He shouldn't do it, and she shouldn't let him, but for one instant, she buries her face in his shoulder, as he rests his cheek against her hair.

Then she pushes him away, but gently, smooths the lapels of his jacket.

"I'm still here." She says.

And that is all he dare ask for.

Can she really put herself through this? The fact that she needs to ask, answers her own question. In too deep, now. She cares for this wretched, broken, arrogant, stupid mess of a man. For her own sanity, her own dignity, she should take a step back from the brink. But she fears that she has already taken a step too far, and she's falling, now, nobody to catch her.

So suck it up, woman. Join the ranks of the unrequited. You have a job to do, a world to be in. You still have to work with him, and you cannot let one unguarded sentence wreck you. He needs you, not the way you wish he would, but he has nobody else. If he can move past it, so can you. Just be what he needs you to be, and keep your stupid mouth shut in future.

He wonders if he ever truly meant to drive her away. Can no longer trust himself, or his actions. His body and his subconscious have ganged up on his conscious mind. Filled his dreams and his unguarded thoughts with her, and now he may have wrecked it before it could even begin. Even if he could define what 'it' is. Or could be.

He can't promise to change, tangled in his web of loyalties and confusion, but he has been jolted rudely from his single pursuit, presented with a consequence he does not ever wish to face. Dragged back into the world, into the light, made aware of his body, of simple pleasures he thought he'd lost, of the fact that, try as he might to deny it, he was a man who wanted a particular woman. Wanted to live, after all.

He has no words, does not know what he could say. Both too soon, and too late, for what needs to be said. But she is still here, still his Lisbon.

She will persist in her belief that he can be fixed, push him and nag him and harass him, keep him alive with anger and hope. Lay those small, strong hands on him and keep him with her, keep him from destruction. If he can't believe in himself, perhaps he can believe in her.

Not the first journey they have spent, silence between them filled with unspoken and complicated thoughts. Things to repair between them, reassessment and readjustment. Something curiously comforting in the very awkwardness of it. It's just how they are, together.


	4. Sub Rosa

Sub Rosa

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Jane has been here before, so many times, rooms filled with the trappings of care. It never matters what is on the wall – doctorates or diplomas, commendations or crucifixes. Just someone trying to get inside his head, pry open the shell.

...Dr Aubyn, a bland expression on his thin, clever face, and startlingly dark eyes, makes the first personal notes on his jotting pad.

_...No overt indication of physical distress, seems co-operative. In light of subject's background, 'seems' would be the operative word..._

Intelligent, articulate and undoubtedly antagonistic. There's a wariness in that face, even as the charming grin flashes out. The quick gaze flicks around the room, acquiring detail, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Medical Service Corps."

_...Every bit as observant as he's reputed to be..._

"Which means that most of what comes across my desk here counts as light relief." Aubyn gives a small smile.

… _Honestly surprised that he turned up, until I realized that TL must have applied pressure... _

Aubyn knows more about him than Jane would like. More than Jane realizes – he's seen a weary woman, fingers stilled with effort, trying to articulate her professional worry, whilst her eyes betray her. It says an incredible amount about the strength of her will that Jane is even in this room.

(He hadn't believed she was serious about the psychiatric evaluation, outraged when she stands by his couch, simply tells him that he's due up in the office. He can resist everything but her tired, "please.")

"I know you don't want to be here, so we'll keep this brief. Like you, I'm on retainer to the CBI. You can sit here and not talk for, say, a quarter hour. I still get paid. I'm not sure my couch is as comfortable as yours, but you are welcome to try it."

Jane settles onto the proffered couch, crosses his legs. Waves a hand.

"Don't let me keep you from your paperwork."

Aubyn lets him sit. He doesn't fidget, but neither does he hold himself so tight that it screams panic. An absolutely neutral behaviour.

_...Personal history surprisingly sparse – a lot of public information that doesn't convey anything. Huge traumatic event that overshadows everything else – But - no other family at all?..._

"I notice that you don't have any Next of Kin listed in your file."

Pause. Not many people dare to be that blunt. Jane is intrigued. Wary.

"That will be because I don't have any. Slight problem for that happy chit-chat, those little questions designed to put the client at their ease."

_...so he's familiar with the process.._

"I'm not trying to pry on this one, Mr Jane. This is a purely administrative matter. I just need a contact name." Aubyn raises an eyebrow. "I'll put your supervising agent, if you like."

There is another pause.

"I'm not sure _she'd_ like. But far be it from me to get in the way of the dreaded bureaucracy of this place."

All Jane's senses are prickling. His feelings for Lisbon are new and raw and complicated, and he cannot quite describe them to himself, does not find anything admirable in his motivations. Will certainly not expose them to the gaze of another.

..._This personality would never fit into a hierarchy..._

"You have very little time for rules and regulations."

"I'm a law-abiding citizen." Gestures. "I fight on the side of the angels, after all."

"Interesting choice of words. Would you ever consider firearms training?"

"No." Qualifies that curt response. "I'm not fond of guns."

"Yet - you shot a man."

"He pointed a gun at Agent Lisbon. So I stopped him..."

_...The man had already killed another officer. Kidnapper, would-be rapist, and murderer. But the only thing that matters to my client is that threat. He calls her 'Agent Lisbon' in a neutral tone, but even the untrained eye can see that there is something between them... _

"..And now you want to know how I 'feel' about that? How I'm 'handling' it?" Forefingers crook.

"Given your usual mental state, Mr Jane, I wouldn't like to say." Dr Aubyn says, dryly.

"Oh, is this where you tell me I'm the Poster Boy for PTSD?"

"I would have thought it to be more of an Acute Stress Disorder. Given that you do not seem to actively avoid certain things that might be reminiscent of the original trauma. In fact, you seem to seek them out."

Jane gives him a narrow look, reassesses. No false friendliness here, a straightforward and pragmatic approach. Rather more dangerous.

"I think of it as aversion therapy."

"I expect you probably do. Which leads me to suppose that you have some idea of how to handle other aspects of...stress."

"I find satisfaction in my work, I'm exercising regularly, I'm making an effort to eat better. I even socialize." A reminiscent grin. "I spent an interesting evening at the theatre not long ago..."

"Sleeping?" Aubyn fires out briskly.

Damn, this one is good. Most people don't spot the omissions.

"I've never been a heavy sleeper."

"Do you take medication to help?"

"I don't like to take anything that might impair my mental functions."

He had hated being dependent on a drug regime at the hospital, the feeling of being controlled. Hates the drained, heavy feeling from pills, though he has used both them and Scotch to take the world away before.

_...resistance to the idea of any kind of therapy. However, obviously aware of procedures. Avoidance of outright response to questions about medical history interesting..._

Jane's not sure what the man has in front of him, notes in a folder. He dislikes the fact that he has a file, even as he knows that behind his own desk, he has cartons of files, each box a little graveyard of pain and fear and faith. In another life, he could have had this profession, except that he lacks the capacity for true healing. He just likes to know how the pieces fit together, he's never been around to pick them up afterwards.

...he'd forgotten Carol Gentry, her pale plain face creased in angry bewilderment...

"You have friends you can talk to?"

"Well, talking about finding your loved ones butchered does tend to stop a conversation in its tracks."

"Except that you don't talk about it, do you? You deflect very well."

"What good does talking about it do?" For one instant, Aubyn gets a glimpse of his eyes. "It happened, and I have to live with it. Nobody else should have to."

Ah.

_...Not comfortable with the idea of sharing anything. Sees it as weakness. Hostile to the idea of pity..._

Jane swings his legs off the couch, stands up.

"I make that our allotted session time."

_... To the minute, and he's had his back to the clock. Knew he would be difficult, but, my god, the man is an eel..._

"And it would be no use my suggesting that you consider another session?"

"We both know that I can ace any tests you throw at me." He stands there, totally at ease. "The question is, are you going to allow me to continue doing what I do?"

A man may be prepared to kill, and then find the reality overwhelming. But Aubyn thinks that this is far from the case here. Already damaged before he ever picked up that gun.

"I have no desire to play mind games, or to provoke any of your other no doubt numerous issues. I just have to assure The Powers That Be, via Virgil Minelli, that you won't run amok in future."

"Oh, Agent Lisbon keeps me on a tight leash."

_...And that is probably the most honest thing he's said to me..._

All the right answers to the questions, a smooth and impervious shell. They could fence all day, and Aubyn would not get through those defences, even though he knows they are there. Too practised at this.

_......Careless with his own life. Could be careless with the lives of others, in pursuit of a goal, if not restrained. _ _Perfectly willing to mete out his own brand of justice. Takes no account of rules or procedure, but then - he's not an agent, not an officer of the law, and does not consider himself as such...A con-man with a vigilante streak. Charming and ruthless.....The only thing keeping him remotely centred is that fragile attachment..._

"Then there's no point in prolonging this any further, Mr Jane. I have people who actually wish to be helped waiting to see me." Silent clash of wills in their gaze. "But...I have no reason to suppose that you will indiscriminately slaughter bystanders at a crime scene, or decide to go play in the traffic."

_...or that she would let you..._

"You're right." Flashes a smile. "Not as comfortable as my couch."

Aubyn frowns at the closing door. Nothing he can do, no reason to keep the man from doing what he does. To all outward appearances, a man who functions, who is working past some terrible problems, finding a fragile equilibrium. And yet...

_...Personally, I'd keep him where I could see him..._


	5. Rose Between Two Thorns

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Rose Between Two Thorns

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_She can't be his wife, and there is anger in her passion. This isn't making love. This is bad sex, angry sex, the twisted web of guilt and need and desire. He cries a little afterwards, silently, as she turns from him, feigns sleep, so that he can slip away..._

Lisbon shakes her head angrily, dislodges the memory, snaps back to the now.

She can't believe that he's back, that she's going to have to work with him again. That she's going to have to go out and talk to him, in front of the team. In front of Jane.

The interview with Minelli had been bad...

..."Your judgement is compromised, Lisbon."

"Yessir." That cannot be denied.

"CBI are bringing in new blood. Serial Crimes are now taking an active interest. Senior Agent Bosco will be handling any cases pertaining to Red John from now on, as Lead Agent."

"Sam Bosco?" Oh god.

"Yes." He fixes a fishy eye. "This will not be a problem, Lisbon."

"No, sir." Her old mentor. (Her ex-lover.)

She'd always assumed that Cochrane would get the hand-off. Their not-so-friendly rivalry is well-known, both making Senior Agent in SCU around the same time. But Bosco – he'd been in line for Minelli's job, until he'd taken a high-flying troubleshooter post in Serial Crimes, working out of L.A for the last five years. (And if that move had coincided with their messy break-up, what of it?)

She clears her throat.

"What will this mean for Jane?"

Minelli doesn't pretend to misunderstand.

"Nothing good. I'd hope he'd remain in the CBI as consultant, but he'll have to learn to play nicely." The look he gives her indicates that he knows how unlikely this is.

Bosco and Jane are never going to get on.

Bosco is honest, dedicated, very good at his job. But he is a vocal opponent of, quite genuinely cannot see the use of, Jane's insights, feels that maverick methods are no substitute for proper police work.

Jane does not do well with authority figures, particularly male authority. And to be dismissed out of hand as worthless will do absolutely nothing to smooth that over.

(And there is, of course, the other matter. Not something she wants Jane to know, not something she ever wants to share. Particularly with a man who has so much reverence for his marriage vows that he still wears his ring six years on.)

Two strong-willed men, set for confrontation. And she's going to be in the middle of it.

000000000000

Jane is still smarting from his encounter with Dr Aubyn. The team are all walking on egg-shells around him anyway, and he's beginning to get that taut, angry edge to him, his response to being coddled. She doesn't know whether to break the news to him in private, or to lay it out in public, in the somewhat wincing hope that it might mitigate his reaction.

"Okay, I have an announcement..."

She doesn't look at Jane as she tells them, flat declaration of the arrangement, but she can feel him seethe.

"...I'm not happy about it, either. But I didn't make the decision."

Cho is genuinely alarmed. Things are already on a knife-edge. Jane's not the most stable of people at the best of times. Cho likes the guy, mostly, but they all know that he's not one for rules. The only person who can make him halfway behave is Lisbon, and something is about to go way sour there. Cho doesn't do gossip, but he's got a perfectly good pair of ears, and he's been at the CBI longer than the rest...

"Did you even try and fight it?" Jane's voice is far too calm.

"What with? 'Oh, I'm sorry, you can't take this case away, because my consultant wants to play vigilante'?" Blows her breath out. "You have to make a choice, Jane. You stay and work with us, part of a team, and you accept that. Or you – don't. But I can't change this. One of those things I can't fix." Aiming to hurt, out of her own weary temper, and no time to regret saying it. Looks up and over, and her face changes. "He's here."

Senior Agent Sam Bosco. Slightly taller than Jane, slightly older. He has an open smile, a firm, friendly handshake, instantly bonding with the team. He's been there, on the front line, came up through the ranks, one of them. And then he greets Lisbon as 'Teresa'.

Watching them together, Jane has a sudden lurch of shock. They have a history.

She hasn't seen him for years. The dark eyes, hollow angles and planes of his long face. That smile of his, a different charm from Jane's, but just as potent. He looks a little more worn, and the beard is new, suits him.

"...and this is our consultant, Patrick Jane."

They shake hands. It's perfectly polite, and yet somehow, Van Pelt has that sense she used to get when the big storms blew in back home.

Jane is their Alpha male. He doesn't have Rigsby's size and presence, Cho's stone-cold competence, but he's the one that owns the room when he's in it. And now there is another tiger on the hill.

Jane's eyebrows rise very slightly, and he smiles, wide and bright. To anyone who knows him well, this is an extreme danger signal.

"So...the move into politics is on hold for another year? Until the scandal of the divorce dies down. Wise move."

"Your disdain for social conventions is on record, Mr Jane. I'm not really concerned with your approval." A cool gaze. "We're grateful to you for the work that you've done for us here..."

It's a subtle dismissal.

"...but if you'll excuse us, this is a briefing for the agents."

That's not.

Lisbon's chin jerks in surprise. _Oh, crap._

"I'm sorry," No apology at all in face or voice, "but I believe Mr Jane to be too intimately concerned with this case, and as such, he cannot be party to the investigation."

Swings his authority like a mace, smashes apart the frail peace they have brokered between them.

Jane looks at her, mute reproach, and she is so angry, with them both. What else can she do? Her rational workaday self obeys authority, recognises structure, sees the logic and accepts it. The small part of her that hurts for him has no place here.

"I'm afraid Sa...Senior Agent Bosco is correct. As Lead Agent on this particular case, he has the final say."

She watches the shutter come down, his eyes go cold and blank.

The man has come marching in, trying to take over _(Lisbon)_ the case, and he _(can't have her)_ doesn't have the _(right)_ skill.

"Five minutes." She says abruptly to Bosco. He gapes, taken aback, but the rest of the team are already moving away, towards the table, and perforce he follows.

He watches her square up to the consultant. She looks tired, worried. The man is obviously a liability. What the hell was Virgil thinking of, allowing him anywhere near the case in the first place? And Teresa – why hadn't she handed him off, first chance she got? No-one else had been prepared to put up with him for any time at all.

This isn't their usual bickering, this is a proper fight. He looks purely angry. It's a frightening look on Jane – his usual mask is one of good humour.

"Dammit, Jane, I didn't make the rules here."

"But you follow them. Hiding behind that badge of yours."

He feels betrayed. Abandoned. Always the job. Always the rules, the protocol, the damn procedures. And then...to find out that.

"I am not hiding. This is what I _do_, Jane. I am an officer of the law. Which means rules, and regulations and working as a team. Personal feelings don't come into it."

He makes an extremely rude noise of disbelief. (She can't blame him.)

"Really, _Teresa._"

She flinches. Jane can find every raw wound. Looks at him with rage and fear and misery in her eyes.

"It's not the sort of thing you share. I'm not proud of it."

"No." Flat monosyllable stings her.

"Not everyone can live up to your standards, okay? You still wear..." Bites that off, appalled.

Jane stares at his hand for a moment. Then at her. That's the look he gets when he has found something out, eyes very dark. He takes a deep breath, frames his words carefully.

"Whether I wear this ring or not, I was married, I loved them, I lost them. I wouldn't ask you not to wear that cross." Fingers fly to her throat, and she is ashamed of herself. "My family are dead. But I won't forget them."

"Nobody would ever ask you to." She swallows a lump of sorrow, frustration. "It's none of my business..."

Because she dare not reach out to tip the world. Will not compete again with another woman, alive or dead.

"No. You need to understand." Hand curls into a fist, and he looks back up with a gaze of such open pain. "The memories are all I have. Just...memories."

Perhaps she does understand a little more, now, hating herself. Perhaps he understands a little more, too.

The anger dissipates, falls away from them. She can never stay angry with him when he looks so...wounded.

"Whatever happened in the past between me and him, it's long over."

"He doesn't want it to be. He's back in your life. And minus the wife, now. Convenient."

"Why is it any of your business?"

Because you're mine, he thinks, before he can catch the thought, and it leaves him speechless. She sighs, and he isn't used to her looking...defeated.

"Jane, I have to go and do my job. I _have_ to. There's a whole world out there that we have to be part of."

"I don't care about the rest of the world..."

The wrong thing to say. Touches off the anger again.

"Oh, that's so _very_ clear. You don't care about anybody but yourself. _Your_ pride, _your_ revenge, your own selfish, stupid death-wish."

"What else have I got?" Rips out of him, shocks them both. "This isn't my world. That's been made very clear, too."

Tell me again, he thinks, tell me that _you_ care, because I need _something_. But he can't make his tongue form the words.

Shakes her head hard, and walks to the table, leaves him standing, alone.

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How the hell, how the _hell_ did an argument about jurisdiction suddenly become a personal battleground? Damn the man.

She doesn't want to challenge his authority, old habit, old loyalty, but she has a flash of disquiet as Bosco sits at the head of the table. This is her team.

And then Bosco puts the file down. It's a substantial pile of paper.

"This is not a Red John file. This is merely the file of complaints received about Mr Jane since he started consulting for the Bureau. Can you tell me exactly why he's tolerated?"

Tolerated? Where the hell does this come from? Anger makes her voice sharp.

"Because of his performance record closing cases."

"That's not down to him. That's down to you, Teresa." He taps the file, palm of his hand. "He stirs up trouble, and you sift through the pieces and sort it out. You've had to tackle would-be attackers. You've shot people to protect him from situations he shouldn't have been in." He frowns. "Agent Van Pelt was targeted by an individual with a grudge against this man, who subsequently assaulted Agent Rigsby. Does this mean that anyone that works with him becomes a target for someone he's insulted?"

_He got his family killed_ - remains unspoken, but echoes between them. Van Pelt colours, dull angry flush at the reminder of her humiliation. Rigsby shifts, uncomfortable. Cho's frown deepens. Lisbon registers this, but her focus, and her fury, are for this man in front of her.

"I think you should take your concerns to Minelli, if you feel that you cannot work with Mr Jane."

"I have no intention of working with him. I also think that you should reconsider doing so."

"He's my consultant. On my team. And we work with him, or not at all." Gathers them with a gaze. "You can return to work. Senior Agent Bosco and I will finish up here."

They scatter, grateful. Too many undercurrents here, things they do not want to know or be involved in. That scorching green gaze turns on Bosco.

"What the hell is all this about, Sam? This has nothing to do with the case."

"It has everything to do with it. He's dragged you into the sights of a serial killer, Teresa. He's dangerous."

Lisbon shivers. She knows that Red John has seen her. How much that will mean, they have yet to find out.

"Do you think I don't know that?" she snaps back. "I'm not your damn rookie any more, Sam. I've got a nice long list of people who have threatened me, and most of them are behind bars."

"He doesn't want to put this guy behind bars, he wants him in the ground. And he'll kill himself and others trying."

"I won't let him." Her voice is firm, article of faith.

Tilt of unease in him then, the feeling of miscalculation. He's used to the glory-seekers and the ghouls in his line of work. Reading through that file, though, his assessment of the man had moved from negligible pest to outright risk. That odd little outburst in the office had done nothing to mitigate that view.

"Teresa..."

Her name sounds wrong on his lips, a diminuation of who she is within these walls. And that is what this feels like, another attack on her professional capabilities. They stare at each other. She feels that old pull, guilty attraction and the urge to stop him looking so worried, for her, about her, and anger rises. Sets her jaw. She is a grown woman, and this man has no claim on her now.

"Senior Agent Lisbon. So you don't barge into my office and question my competency, Senior Agent Bosco, or the competency of my team."

Even if one of them is a self-involved time-bomb.

He doesn't understand. But she has always been better at taking care of others, than being taken care of. He had never understood why she had not stayed in his team, under his protection, prepared to move her world to be with him.

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Shaken to his very core by this new knowledge of her. Trying to match the strong, moral Lisbon that he knows with the idea of a young Teresa and that...his mind flinches away, and he curses his vivid imagination.

He's seen his share of human frailties, pandered to many, but he can never quite treat infidelity with insouciance. Marriage is important to him, a thing apart from other considerations of faith or morality. He has always thought it important to Lisbon, too. Oh, he in no way supposes that she entered the relationship lightly, and he has an idea that it carried a great deal of pain and guilt for her.

That man had worn his ring in bed with her. Had had so little respect for either woman, for what promises it stood for. She wouldn't want, should never have, a man who could shed such things lightly, who could discount his past. He feels no urge to condemn, just a sudden desire to take her in his arms, and tell her stupid, foolish things, wipe that memory away. Looking for a father figure to replace the one she lost, and she gets a scumbag who couldn't keep it in his pants.

The coldly analytical part of his mind knows how it would have played out, why. Lisbon is beautiful and bright and strong, and no surprise that any man should want her. And him...older, unhappy, offering his pain to her compassion. She has a soft heart under the hard shell, and that unscrupulous bastard had played her like a violin. Guilty rage in him, how close he comes to doing the same thing. Conscious that his fists are clenched, releases them.

He is not a naturally violent man, but he wonders if something else has broken in him, now - he has pulled a trigger, taken a life, after all...

But. No. This is older, much older, and so very human. Cynical amusement in him. He has spent his life playing with the minds of others, always the smartest person in the room, and none of that can help him in the face of this purely emotional response. Primal jealousy. She is _his_ woman.

He has other weapons than his fists with which to fight for her. Though it would give him a great satisfaction to punch that stupid smirk off the man's face.

What is he to her? Colleague? Friend? Something else? If he could believe it was mere lust, they could burn it out in the thrashing heat of sweat and skin. But it wasn't, and he couldn't. Because he should not touch her, when to do so may call down the lightning. Knowing him is dangerous.

Still, it doesn't stop him wanting her. Frightened, selfish, possessive and totally unable to help himself.

He feels the shift in himself, that tear from the past, bows his head against it. Without his rage, what is he? A lost, broken man with no place in the world. He has to have something. Lives with memories, because all his dreams become nightmares.

He can cling to his dream of her, or he can cling to his nightmare of vengeance...

He leans on the wheel of the DS, breathes deeply.

If he starts driving now, he can be in Malibu for the small hours. Not that he'll sleep...

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No great surprise to storm away from that aborted farce of a briefing, and to find him gone. But he doesn't appear for the rest of the day, and he's turned his phone off.

He's a grown man, and he has the right to go where he will. What can she do to stop him? Tear down the last barriers of pride, beg him? It isn't in her, she has been as far down that road as she can. She has no claim on him, nothing but tenuous bonds of friendship that they have both strained to the limits. She wonders how long he'll stay with the CBI now, what he'll do if he leaves (her) them. Probably get himself arrested. Or killed.

And if he dies somewhere out there in the world, will they ever know? Or will he just vanish? An unclaimed body in some small town. Or a phonecall, official and apologetic, to ask them if they are aware...

Call switches to voicemail again. She snaps it off, rubs tired eyes. It's just the length of the day, no other reason for them to be damp.

But she's at home, now, no-one to see her. Can even manage a twisted smile at the irony. Did last time teach you nothing about falling for unsuitable men, Teresa? Because you really picked a prize this time. This isn't a man with a few marital issues. He's reckless to the point of suicide, and he had a breakdown, could have another. Are you really going to spend your life picking up the pieces?

Yes.

Inner voice shocks her. But it won't be denied.

It isn't the case of somebody having to. You want to. A desire for martyrdom, a masochistic streak...or just the fact that you love him, and you want him to be whole and happy. And now you might have to face the fact that you aren't strong enough. That he might not come back. The despite all that you might want, he really does want to destroy himself.

It isn't until she is in bed, and on the very edge of sleep, that she realises that she hasn't put the chain on her door. Turns her face into her pillow, though whether she is crying for him or for herself, she couldn't say.


	6. The Lightning Strike

_-Coldplay and Snow Patrol have a lot to answer for...-_

_._

_._

The Lightning Strike

.

.

Emptiness of the couch is like a slap in the face. She is glad she has the refuge of her office. A second day of quiet, angry misery and paperwork.

There is another meeting with Bosco, both of them freezingly polite. He does not comment on the absence of Jane, and they rake over the latest case file.

The forensics people are already in Hattiesburg. Hates the idea of violating that woman's home, her sanctuary, but someone has already done that, done worse. Betrayed her love and trust...

With hindsight, she does not believe that Tanner would have given them anything. The man had been a dupe, a pawn. Red John had left him as a sop. Whatever he could have said, it would not have led them anywhere. Finds herself defending her decisions, knows she may have to do so to more than the team one day. Maybe. If he comes back.

Bosco watches them, a close-knit team who take their lead from the small woman. They do not blame her. It's the calm-faced Asian agent, Cho, who merely says,

"Next time, Boss, let us know sooner."

And that seems to be it. They accept that she should endanger herself for that suicidal lunatic. And when he queries it, the large agent shrugs, and says,

"It was a Jane hunch." Like that explains everything.

A call comes in, a case for Serious Crimes, and before he can dismiss them, the team are following her down the room, no place for him. He had been drawn to the feisty detective, when they first met, her fire and ambition. He had persuaded her to transfer to the CBI, and had found his motives mixed from the start. He cannot believe that they let her run such risks.

Takes his concerns to Minelli, who hears him out in silence, eyes hooded. And then backs Lisbon up with a measured, diplomatic calm, that causes Bosco to storm from the office.

Minelli does not like Bosco. The work of the two units has overlapped before, and they have butted heads more than once. He wonders at the idiocy of the man. Teresa Lisbon does not need wrapping in cotton wool; she's probably the toughest Agent in the Unit. And that includes Manny 'Pitbull' Dobras. It's not even the first time someone has pulled a gun on her.

The antagonism towards Jane is understandable. And expected. The man is clearly unstable, and reckless, and frequently a damn nuisance to all and sundry. But he gets results. He makes the Department look good. And it's best to have him inside, where they have some measure of control, than loose in the world.

He does not want to know the history between his best agent and this man, and he will not see his best team disrupted. God knows, Jane might be a maniac, but he's Lisbon's maniac, and he's useful. She didn't see fit to drop him on the next promoted soul, and that has to count for something.

His phone rings. Looks at the call ID. Growls.

"What do you mean, where the hell is everybody? Where the hell are you?...Well, that's because everyone is out in the field. Where you are supposed to be. Sierra del Rojas Hiking Trail...Yes, hiking...I doubt the exercise will kill you, and Lisbon will brief you when you get there."

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"I'll take the upper trail. I've hiked it before, it's maybe three hours tops." Lisbon pores over the map. "And..." Stops, with a look of consternation on her face. A familiar silver-blue car pulling into the lot.

The team look at each other. The idea of Jane walking anywhere causes some grins. Though there's some surprise when their consultant gets out of the car. He does look a little like an ad for outdoor wear – the coat and jeans a little too smart – but the outfit isn't new. Gives them a smirk.

"Even I wouldn't wear a suit for hiking." He inspects a boot. "I do hope these don't rub. I haven't worn them for years."

Jane feels very strange without his suit. It has become a second skin, a place to hide. It had been a painful process, to hunt through those old boxes, but he'd found what he wanted. Last time he'd worn this outfit had been a weekend up at the lodge, pretending to make nice with the in-laws. But - there is no way Lisbon gets to go anywhere without him. If it takes wearing hiking boots, he'll do it.

Someone had pointed a gun at her. He could have lost her.

A whole new raft of nightmares, now.

The little clash of wills between them in their glance. Park rangers, who do not know, stand unconcerned. The team back off. They all worry about him, those of the team who have taken lives in the course of duty, and those who haven't. Perhaps he will be less flippant now, more careful. She doubts it.

Then Lisbon jerks her chin.

"So we're clear what we're looking for? The suspect claims to have disposed of the knife and the bottle of pills somewhere between here and here. Keep your eyes open, and walk slowly."

Cho, who had been about to walk with her, pauses, drops back and affixes himself to the party taking the middle trail. He doesn't want any part of the row that is sure to be brewing there. Lisbon gives him one long look, then nods wearily.

She's partway up the path, before she realizes that the two rangers supposed to be with them aren't.

"Circular trail. It will be faster." Jane gives her a slightly defiant look. She hates the fact that he's right. That he has an equal air of authority.

"I hope you can keep up." She snaps.

"I once hiked the southern part of the A.T." Gestures politely. "Lead on, short-legged one."

Glare.

"Where have you been?"

"With my memories." He shrugs.

It had been so very painful, and it had taken a bottle of scotch, but he had forced himself to go through the boxes, touch things, remember. Reaching back through the pain, trying to find those moments of brightness.

"oh." Tiny, hurt syllable.

"Tell me what we're looking for." Off her look. "I've been head down in packing crates all weekend, I missed the briefing."

He's making an effort. She understands that, appreciates that. She can always take refuge in her work, and so she understands that his refuge is different, darker. Their entire world has been wrenched out of the old familiar patterns, and he needs something to anchor him.

But he's here. He's come back. Hasn't he?

000000000000

Lisbon's backside ahead of him on the slope. Bounding ahead of him like a small mountain goat. And she's got a pack.

She can hear him struggling behind her, turns to smirk at him.

"What happened to 'Mr I-hiked-the-Appalachians'?"

"He got older."

He wouldn't have been able to do this even a year ago. Had let his body slide into a cycle of neglect, bad eating habits and worse sleeping patterns.

Now, he welcomes the pull on his muscles, sweat and grit on his skin. No longer in denial of his body, of the fact that he needs food, sleep. Touch. Looks about him.

"If your suspect came by car from the north, he probably dumped the evidence over the ridge."

"Then the rangers will find it. Hopefully. If it's there."

"Well, I hope they find it soon. The weather's changing." Can feel it, charge in the air. "Storm's coming."

He's right. The wall of weather hits them at the top of the ridge.

"There's a shelter half a mile up the path, top of the trail."

Jane nods, and they scramble on through a world turned suddenly to water. The shelter is just off the path, and exactly where Lisbon said it would be, a tiny wooden booth, three walls and a roof, a deep porch. The bench inside would command a fine view on good day – now it's a solid vista of grey.

"That probably washes out any evidence." She's disgusted.

"But we had such a lovely walk in the fresh air." Jane is looking far from his usual suave self, as he pushes back his wet hair with both hands.

Looking at each other, and a weight falls away from them. Just themselves, with no-one else around.

"I've missed you." His uncanny echo of her thoughts.

"We work together every day."

"You know what I mean." He's serious, and something prickles down her spine.

She throws him the small camping towel from her pack, and he rubs his head with it. Emerges looking sweetly dishevelled, and she fails to bite back a smile.

"You so need a haircut."

Jane grins back at her. In casual gear, he looks somehow younger, tougher. He looks like someone who could hike a trail, put up a fight. Though with his hair all over the place, he's less fallen angel and more naughty cherub. Her heart twists. She _has_ missed him, that grin, the sheer abrasive charm of the man, and the charged moments of calm.

He can't quite adopt his usual languid drape, the bench isn't long enough, so he sits with his back to the wall. Watches her hang her wet coat on a peg, and ferret in her bag for her dry sweater.

"I'm not sure you've got the script right." He complains. "Aren't you supposed to take your wet clothes off at this point?" Smirks. "Live the cliché."

She shakes her head, mock disgust.

"Unlike you, I don't spend my off-hours watching bad rom-coms."

"Better than teeny horror-movies."

"So, at some point, we'll discover a cam-corder with Van Pelt weeping snottily into it about ghosts in the woods?"

"Either that, or Cho turns into a werewolf."

She laughs. The first carefree noise he's heard from her this last little while.

"I hope they found the shelter on the lower path."

Jane looks around the small space, meaningfully.

"If it has Van Pelt and Rigsby in it, that might solve all their problems."

"Jane."

"Well, Rigsby lacks initiative. It's why he's not been promoted yet. If I were him, I'd have found a way round those pesky regulations." Grins up at her. "That thing you two do on Tuesdays..."

"Ashtanga..."

"Gesundheit...Maybe I should take him swimming with me. We could all meet up for coffee."

He tries to broker happy endings for others. Meddles, basically. His own conception of how the world should be, and damn all else. She just wishes the two younger agents would figure it all out for themselves, before Jane wades in with his usual lack of tact, and wrecks it all in a welter of embarrassment.

"It isn't appropriate." (Inner voice yells at her hypocrisy.) Jane gives a soft little snort. She clarifies. "I can't know about it."

"Ah." He appreciates the distinction. "I knew you weren't just being bitter and unreasonable."

"I'd like them to be happy. But she can't be expected to give up her career over it."

"So you'd be in favour of a clandestine office romance?" He's still grinning. "I can see how the rules apply in certain situations. You wouldn't want senior agents abusing their power..."

Sees her shoulders pinch. She blinks hard, before she turns around, and even she does not know whether the brightness in her eyes is anger or tears. Jane swears to himself.

"Lisbon...I'm sorry, that wasn't what I meant..."

"He said he wasn't happy, and I was young and stupid and flattered. It was a mistake."

"You are a lovely and compassionate person, and you want to help people. Care about them." Swallows. "That doesn't mean that they actually deserve it."

Double meaning stalks between them. She can deal with him on other levels, but Patrick the man is entirely different. This new version, quieter, tougher, is no longer hiding behind a mask. At his most dangerous, when he's being honest. The only weapon she has is an equal honesty.

"My job, my career... it's who I am. I couldn't just give it all up because..." She's unable to say it, unsure of who it's aimed at.

"He wanted you to go to L.A. Play second fiddle." Jane is too damn perceptive in some ways, but it can be useful. She nods.

So many things are so much clearer to him now. Not just his own feelings.

"The man's an asshole." It comes out hard and vicious. She stares at him. He stares back. "Well, he is. Expecting you to give up everything for him, while he tried to have it all."

She wonders if he ever listens to himself. And her face betrays her thought. Jane sets his jaw.

"I'm not him."

"No." She considers. "You annoy me, you challenge me, you're rude and obnoxious, but you don't," bites her lip, "belittle me."

"Never." He ventures a smile back. "You're short enough, woman." Catches the fist she pokes at him, folds his hand around hers. "You're the only one tough enough to put up with me and my crap. Every other agent at the CBI ditched me."

"You're not a natural team player, are you?" Retrieves her hand.

"No. Ten schools in twelve years, you don't get much of a chance." His sidelong glance. "You were right about me not ever having a proper job, either."

"It shows."

"Hey, I'm trying..."

"...Very..."

"...Lisbon. I do respect you. Your dedication to the law. I just...find it difficult to share it."

"You can't be a vigilante. I won't let you."

"I know. I was being...stupid." A breath. "I get mean when I get scared."

"You are going to have to choose. Whether you stay and work with him."

She can see the tension in his shoulders.

"He doesn't want to work with me."

"No." She takes a breath. "We had a...discussion about that. I told him that you were part of my team. Non-negotiable. Don't make me a liar."

His face, surprise and something else.

"You fought for me."

"And you ran away." She can't help but accuse, the strain of her lost weekend.

"I had some things to think through." Lonely man with a handful of photographs. Scotch and tears and some hard decisions. She has thought him so tied to the past that he couldn't even see the now. She needs to know that he does. "Lisbon..."

She looks up, and his eyes are upon her. Dark and troubled.

The last time he looked at her with that naked pain on his face, he had told her that he couldn't be fixed. And she'd told him...

She knows that she changed the rules first. But she'd been tired and frightened and so very worried that he was going to some place so dark that she couldn't ever bring him back. She'd let slip something that she never meant to, and he'd slapped her back. And now...

This is wrong. Unprofessional. Dangerous. Inappropriate.

They cannot do this. Cannot have this conversation.

She opens her mouth to tell him so.

And can't.

To deny the situation is to admit to its very existence. And she can't lie to him, because he knows her too well.

And, suddenly, between one breath and another, they both know that there is no way to ever pretend that this is remotely platonic any more.

More than just pain in his face, storm in his eyes. Her own breath catching, and she knows that she cannot hide. There is nowhere to hide. Not from him. Not from herself.

Two people, fully clothed, the width of the room between them. It doesn't matter. Shockingly clear memory of every bit of skin they have ever seen, ever touched, stalking between them like lightning, the air charged with it.

Things will not be the same between them, but things have been changing for the longest time now, and nothing in the world will alter that.

They have watched the rain together before. Revenge is for fools and madmen. Perhaps he is both. But he thinks that falling in love with this woman is the sanest thing he has ever done, and he's been a fool to fight it. She's brave and strong and honest, all the things he's not. He doesn't think he can be fixed, doesn't think he deserves to have her even try. But he's tired of fighting it, tired of being lonely and lost. That one terrifying moment of illumination, the knife-edge choice between loss and desolation. He's not strong enough any more.

She told him that she cared, that she needed him. He needs her, so much more.

"What –" Finding himself unsure, lost for words, "if...some things _are..._too badly broken?"

"At least you could try to fix them."

"Would you?" he asks, quietly. "Because – I don't know where to start without you."

And all of her arguments fall to pieces. He sits there before her, the reason why she hasn't had a proper date in two years, because it would feel like cheating. The man who crept into her fantasies, and then started to invade her dreams. With all his pain and his flaws and his lovely face so sad and serious. Arrogant, damaged. All the things she shouldn't want, and the only man she does.

"Patrick..." His name slips out, and betrays her.

He looks at her beautiful eyes, so very wide, and gives a shaken little laugh.

"Do I frighten you that much?"

"Yes." Her voice cracks.

"Good. Because you terrify me, woman."

She knows with a sudden clear certainty that she has a power over him equal to any he has over her. That she could touch him, drive him down any road she chose. That he could do the same. Two equally scared people. They have no illusions. Aware they could hurt each other? Certainly. They are both adults. Afraid to take the risk? More than a little.

Then she smiles at him, wry and tender.

"This is...crazy."

He smiles back, a crooked little-boy smile with no guile in it, oddly shy.

Because there is going to be a 'this'.

Awkward. Terrifying. Difficult. Wonderful.

Nothing has truly been resolved; this is just the confirmation of a further complication in their lives. What they have isn't easy or simple or even entirely comfortable. But it exists.

For now, it's just Patrick and Teresa, and the beginnings of...something.

There is a step, a shout. Two slicker-clad park deputies toiling up the track, one holding an evidence bag.

She draws in a ragged breath, more than part relief.

"We...need to get back to work."

Brief spark of rebellion in his eyes, but he looks at her face, nods. Puts his hands out to help her up. She hesitates, takes them. For an instant, her hands rest in his.

"I'm not trying to hide behind my badge, whatever you think...but my job is important to me."

"I understand." Looks at her. "I want to be important to you, too."

Takes her breath away, the simplicity of it.

"You are."

The world doesn't stop. Walls remain standing, and time moves on. It's just a kiss, two mouths meeting, a little hesitant, quick and sweet. Necessary.

Then she steps back, sliding her fingers away from his, out into the world, becomes Lisbon, back at work, organizing and discussing.

And Jane follows after, oddly quiet but not uncomfortable, watching her.

Once, he'd promised to love and cherish.

"_...I want you to know that I will always be there for you..."_

Vows to a god he didn't believe in, but the vows were not empty.

"_I'm going to cut him open, and watch him die slowly..."_

Thumb turns the ring on his finger, and he smiles wryly.

Sometimes, truly, he does still feel married.

Whenever he remembers how it feels to watch a certain smile, a walk, the turn of her head. That little surge of aggressive, protective pride that says 'mine'.

"I'm sorry." He says, softly. "But I need this. Her."

And he knows, finally and forever, that he speaks to the empty air.

He has made a fragile peace with the idea. He still loves his dead wife, his dead child. He still wants to carve Red John into bloody steaklets. But he also loves Teresa Lisbon. Whatever else his life, his future brings, for good or ill, she is in it.

She deserves somebody heart-whole, honest. He doesn't know if he can even begin to be that man. But he can't not try.


	7. Charm Offensive

Charm Offensive

.

.

The next day, she has one moment of terrifying uncertainty when she walks past the bullpen, which makes her heels click like gunshots, rapid fire. But the couch is occupied, as if he has never been away, back in his suit.

"Are you going to make me a tea?" He calls.

"Make your own."

He grins, keeps his eyes closed and waits for the wrath to descend.

"Jane..." He's been called all sorts of pet names and endearments over the years. But hearing Lisbon bark his surname is still one of the sweetest sounds in his life.

"Why do you keep taking the labels off?"

"Because caffeine is bad for you."

"I have a lot of bad habits." she growls. "Which one? Now."

"You really aren't a mornings person, are you?" He grins. Unfolds off the couch, paces into the kitchen after her. "Right-hand pot for the good stuff."

Minelli grumbles his way in, rolls an eye at Jane.

"Oh, you actually deigned to show up today? Good." Turns towards the machine. "Oh, for..."

"Right-hand pot, sir." Lisbon elbows the grinning man beside her, bites back a smile. "I'll re-instate the labels."

Minelli looks between them, grunts.

"He's looking far too cheerful. What's he done now?"

"Nothing that I know of, sir. But I haven't checked my mail yet."

"There'll probably be a request for my removal." Jane says. "Agent Bosco doesn't like me."

"Can't think why, with your winning personality." Minelli shrugs, disgusted. "Not my call. I don't want him on our patch either."

"Friends in high places."

"More than you have." Fixes him with a stern glare. "Be careful. I mean it."

Jane nods.

"And stop taking the labels off the damn coffee machine."

00000000000

Rigsby, who is definitely urban, is pleased to be back in the office. Not that it hadn't been nice to go for a walk with Grace, even with a couple of park rangers tagging along. There's a slight worry that Jane is not going to turn up again, which will mean that the Boss is unhappy. Or the equal possibility that he will turn up, and make her unhappy in a different way.

It almost seems that the latter will be the case, as they are having their usual bicker. But when Rigsby stops to think about it, that hasn't been so usual for the last little while. Jane seems more like his old self today.

Rigsby himself hasn't had occasion to shoot a man in the line of duty as yet. Hopes never to have to. But if anyone ever pointed a gun at Grace, then he wouldn't hesitate, either.

He's not sure what to think about this new guy. One thing to have a case handed over, quite another if it looks like he's going after Jane. Rigsby isn't stupid; fed up with pretending that nothing was going on, he'd leant on Cho in the car yesterday, and Cho had caved. So Rigsby now has a name and face to go with the rumour (that he has long discounted) about his Boss. And he knows why Cho is tense, too. If they know, then for sure Jane knows too. All kinds of ugly.

But they had come back from the trail, with the evidence bagged, and the site marked, Lisbon with her blond shadow behind her. And today, they are turning over the statements, and Jane wants to go and talk to the suspect's brother, and Lisbon is telling him no, which probably means that they will be driving off within half an hour.

He's five minutes out.

Lisbon shaking her head, but setting her shoulders and walking towards the door. Jane at her heels, trying not to grin too broadly, hand almost resting in the small of her back at the doorway.

It looks right again, somehow.

Rigsby grins to himself, and goes back to his report. He can see Grace out of the corner of his eye, looking after the pair of them with her own half-frown.

"Do you think they ever will...?"

"It's not that easy." Her voice is a little sharp.

"Yeah, but it would be..."

"Alarming? Hazardous? Hilarious?" Cho supplies.

Van Pelt glares.

"Bureau Policy..."

"Oh, pthhth. Jane doesn't give a damn about rules."

"Boss does." Van Pelt says firmly. Rigsby subsides, his good mood shot.

Cho grits his teeth. This will mean that Van Pelt will be strung out and snappy all afternoon, and Rigsby will moon uselessly, then want to moan about it all evening. There are days when he wishes they would just have at it, and leave him the hell out of it.

00000000000

She wonders how this will work. What is happening between them.

That terrifying and wonderful moment of realization. They could be more than friends. Gossip at work certainly has them down as more than friends. People have mistaken them for a couple before now.

And, really, what has changed? They have merely admitted to something they have both been denying for a while.

Now they just have to work out what to do about it. And that won't be easy. There's the whole matter of Bureau protocol...

Gives him a nervous, sidelong look.

"Don't expect me to give up." He says, suddenly. "Not now."

"What?"

"You were sitting there and thinking of all the reasons not to, for...us." Tilts his head.

He understands why she is concerned, has been expecting this, but Jane has never met a rule he couldn't bend, break or manipulate. This just means that he has to turn part of his mind over to the problem of overcoming Lisbon's scruples about being with him.

He's never been very good at resisting a challenge. And being told 'no' is quite simply a red rag.

"Not at work." She says. "I mean it, Jane."

Rolls his eyes.

"Control issues much?" Gives her a mock frown. "Give me some credit, woman."

She relaxes. Oddly enough, she realizes that she does trust him not to embarrass her at work. Well, for a given value of embarrass. He's not the type of man to make a public show of his own feelings, respects her need not to broadcast her life over the workplace.

There's a huge difference between discreet and furtive. She knows from bitter experience.

"Where did all this suddenly blow up from?" she wonders.

"I think we've been on a collision course for a long time now." He laughs softly. "You should never have allowed me to cook you dinner that first time..."

"I never had a choice." she hoots. "I came home to find you'd broken in."

"I had a key."

"How you talked Mrs Carson into that, I don't want to know. But I never let you. You just...happened." He's making her laugh, too, and she doesn't want to. "That wretched cactus."

"Roses seemed too ordinary." He grins. "The cactus was more...you."

"Small and spiky." Gives a little snort. "Thank you."

"I'll buy you roses next time."

"Next time?"

"I believe it's customary when dating."

She makes a noise rather like a mouse being trodden on.

"I'm..." Shrugs, a smile that doesn't quite touch the worry in his eyes, "a bit out of practice with the idea."

"Me, too." She admits, in a small voice.

"So...can't we be a bit useless together?"

Oh, damn the man. She wants to be firm and principled, and it's so very difficult when he's so sweet.

Jane settles back into his seat, and watches her wrestling with the idea. He can be patient if he has to be. Remembers those soft lips on his. But only so patient.


	8. A Matter of Trust

-The man can pick a door-lock in ten seconds flat, and he started life as a street-magician, therefore I'm afraid I don't think a pair of standard issue police cuffs would present a challenge.-

.

_Billy Joel – 'A Matter of Trust' – check out the lyrics. Seriously._

.

.

A Matter of Trust

.

.

Walking in to find him propped against his desk, and it might be him in the handcuffs, but it's his audience held captive.

"Have you seen how fast he can get out of these things?" Rigsby is genuinely impressed. Jane grins at her, twists dextrous fingers, and she's rather shocked at the speed with which the links fall off his wrists.

A time in both their minds, another man escaping from custody. Feigning unconsciousness, hands cuffed in front as he was stretchered away...

"These aren't toys." Tone is sharp.

"Entry level street magic." He placates her. "Useful to know what to look out for."

"Your turn, Boss." Cho says, cheerfully. Her mouth dries up. She can't. She knows Jane can see her panic, waits for him to jeer. Instead, he moves, rapid step and turn, and Cho finds himself cuffed to Rigsby.

"Remember 'The Defiant Ones'?" Grins at the outrage. "Now, show Lisbon you were paying attention."

Gives her a few moments to collect herself, while they bicker and argue. (It's Van Pelt who makes the shim from a paperclip and releases them, quick graceful fingers.) His gaze, knowing but not unkind, is a challenge in itself. She won't have him think she's as scared as she is.

It takes a huge amount of courage to snap the cuff on her own wrist. And then Jane puts out his hand, catches up the other cuff over his fingers.

"Just try one to start with. Take it slow."

Protecting her dignity, even if he chips at her authority in other ways. She's both slightly cross, and grateful to him. The thought of being trapped, controlled, makes her feel ill.

Jane watches her face, the way she chews her soft lip, little frown of concentration. She'd be genuinely frightened and angry at being constrained. He would never do that to her. Too stubborn to give in, every problem has a solution for Lisbon, and she'll keep at it until she works it out. The triumphant delight on her face when the cuff snaps open makes him laugh.

"I expect it's not so easy from the standard arrest position." Van Pelt says.

"But possible?" Rigsby's question is merely enquiry, but Jane looks at him.

"I don't know if I still could..." Face is suddenly serious, thoughtful, a moment of worry. The team are on it, eager, encouraging. Lisbon can see the tension behind his smile. And Jane won't back down from a challenge, either.

"Not out in the bull-pen." She says, suddenly. Too many people going past, potential witnesses. Meets his eyes. "My office."

Trust. Control. Vulnerability. Not things either of them are comfortable with.

So Jane stands in her office, grinning, spreads his arms.

"Standard procedure." He says. Eyes dare her. "If my lovely assistant, I'm sorry, my arresting officer - will check that I don't have any keys concealed..."

She pulls his wrists behind his back, palms out.

"I'm not putting my fingers in your mouth. You're probably rabid."

It's never been a fantasy of hers. These cuffs are tools of the trade, useful and nothing more. (one day, she might have to do this for real) A thought which stops the smile forming. She will not let that happen.

"Don't tell me this doesn't do something for your control issues." he says, keeping his voice light. He wouldn't let anyone else do this to him. Can't quite believe he's letting her.

He trusts her. Completely.

(...hands cuffed securely behind his back and completely at her mercy) ...That thought is so very, very wrong.

"Lisbon, my dear, you are thinking something thoroughly wicked. Care to share?"

No, she absolutely wouldn't. Laughs at him.

"There are women in this building that would kill to see this. I should take pictures."

He smirks back.

"You want to explain to the whole building that you inveigled me into your office and handcuffed me?"

"I could claim you broke in." That crooked little grin of hers. He realizes that it is a good thing he has his hands restrained, because the urge to run his fingers down the line of her jaw is overwhelming. He knows what her skin, her smile, feel like, has replayed it in his mind many times. Wants one day to experience it again, eyes and touch together.

"You could do whatever you wanted to me..." he muses, watches her face. Delicate wash of colour, but she leans right in...

"I might have known you'd be a pervert." She tweaks his nose. "So do I get that camera?"

He growls at her, amused. He's never been one for physical games; mental games are far more fun. Especially with such a lovely opponent.

They watch, as he backs up to the desk. Scary contortion of his body to hitch his joined hands under his backside, bringing his knees up. "...ouch...if I dislocate something, I get to explain to the ER how it happened..." One foot, the other, and this really isn't as easy as it was when he was twenty-one. "...Well, you see, my boss lady wanted to tie me up in her office..." Twists his fingers, pulling the paperclip that appears, wire between his lips, "... and she has a gun..." Once he has one hand free, he's soon out, and flexing sore shoulders. Looks up and grins.

"Were you hoping that I was going to get stuck? Shame on you all."

He's not as fast as he was, but it's still impressive, judging by their expressions.

"Only one thing for it." Lisbon grins back. "We're going to have to start carrying those plastic ties."

"That's cheating." Mentally, he makes a note to start carrying a disposable lighter. Never reveal all your tricks. "So, now you have an urge to tie me up?"

"Mostly, I have the urge to gag you." Waves her hands, though still smiling. "Show's over, guys, back to work. Or sleep, for those who don't have anything better to do."

They scatter, cheerfully amused. Jane hesitates a moment, places the cuffs back in her hand.

"You'll never need handcuffs to hold onto me, my dear." Breathed very softly, for her ears alone.

"Stop it."

"No."

"Jane..."

"I checked Bureau policy. And the terms of my contract." (She's suddenly not at all sure that she's going to like where this is going.) "I am a freelance consultant, on retainer to the California Bureau of Investigation, not an employee. Therefore, I'm not bound by the personnel protocols."

She follows that through to its logical conclusion, and her eyes widen. Jane's grin widens into something positively predatory; he's quite honest about certain things, and he's ruthless enough for them both.

She's not been...pursued, since college. And there is a world of difference between a goofy boy just out of High School, and this man. He'd once claimed that seducing her over a meal would be sophomoric. She suspects that she's about to get the full post-doctoral treatment.

"Go _away_." She wishes she sounded more convincing.

He gives her a heart-stopping grin and strolls nonchalantly back to his couch. She sits at her desk, holding the handcuffs, and aware that she's smiling like a fool.

He checked his contract?

She's losing this war, battle by battle, and she hates to think that she's not even putting up a fight.


	9. When Worlds Collide

When Worlds Collide

.

.

He's not sure, just turning up here, like this. Whether he will be welcome. It isn't like him to be nervous. Normally, he has no care, no time for social niceties. But if he gets this wrong, it will be...he's made his decision, he doesn't think he could bear to still work with her, and have her cold and distant. He's also not sure if he can trust himself, if she looks up at him with those big green eyes, and that makes him nervous, too.

He was a little wild in his early twenties, they all were, a world of fun and parties. But he'd met his wife, and he's never been with another woman since. That's the honest truth. Oh, he flirted as part of his persona – (as later, he'd flirted with Sophie, subverted her control, and he does feel a stab of guilt for that, but he had no-one else to release him from that place) – but then, he had resisted temptation, and there had been a few, he won't deny, put away the show and gone home. He'd liked being married. Under the glitz and the show, he's the faithful type.

He's hanging about at the doorway like some damn teenager, because he's afraid he'll get dumped with a 'just friends' speech. Which is ridiculous. She cares about him, he's important to her, he knows that she finds him attractive...he realizes that he is reciting a list of things to himself, and winces.

He has to know. Has to be here.

And then a man opens the door.

"Hello?"

The world tips right side up again. Jane has a slight advantage, having seen photos. The man, pale skin and untidy dark hair, has the same eyes as his sister. More hazel than Lisbon's clear green, but the same set of the jaw, sense of strength and hard-earned wisdom. Dressed in jeans and a casual t, proclaims he went to somewhere called Finch.

"You're...Sean, right?"

"Right." Wary smile, and a handshake. "And you are?..."

"Patrick..."

"Sean, who is it?"

Lisbon peers around his shoulder. Jane waves his fingers. She closes her eyes.

She's always dreaded the day past and present would meet. Niall has some sense of normal behaviour, but Sean is the joker. The brother she really, really didn't want to ever see alone with Patrick Jane.

"Hey, T-bone. You never told me you had a new boyfriend."

And that would be why.

It's an obvious inference, after all. A man turning up to her apartment at this time of the evening.

Jane sees the dismay in her face, and sighs.

"I'm...just a friend from work." He waves an airy hand. "I was going to offer to cook dinner, but I can go..."

"Oh, hey, no need. Unless..._can_ he cook?" Sean asks his sister.

"Oh, yes." Oh, damn. "But, Sean..."

But Sean is already shutting the door, with Jane this side of it.

They can do this. It's just dinner. With her brother.

Her horrible, immature baby brother. The one with no sense of personal boundaries and a really good memory for all the bits of her teenage years she doesn't want to share with anyone...

00000000000

"What were you going to cook, then?"

"I was going to try that eggplant thing you do." she confesses. "You nearly got a call for the recipe."

"Lisbon..." He's already hunting out the apron. "I _never_ share the secret sauce recipe. I would've had to come over anyway."

It seems a bit ridiculous after the last few months, spending their free time together, dinner and movies. He has a key to her damn apartment, for god's sake. They know each other so well in so many ways. But she feels oddly shy, their admission of feelings taking things to a new level.

"You stopped coming over."

"Veidt." He lifts a shoulder, slightly shamed.

"I did wonder."

"It was very – complicated. And then...it wasn't." Eyes intent.

She wonders how it would have been, if Sean hadn't turned up on a surprise visit. Would she have let him in, with this strange new mix of the unresolved between them? Because they aren't children, and there's no doubt about his intentions. Hell, she's not sure about her own, and that's even more worrying.

Sean watches them in the kitchen. Obvious that the guy has been here before, knows his way around the place. Watching someone manage his sister is hilarious, the gentle way he steers her about. And Tree, laughing up at him, in a way he hasn't seen for years. Because _of course_ he's 'just' a 'friend' from work. Grins to himself.

Eventually, she finds herself banished from her own kitchen, sits herself down with her glass of wine, and regards Sean nervously. He doesn't disappoint.

"Well," smirk, "he's sooo much better than those weirdos you dated in high school. Or that mad guy from the record store..."

"Shut up." She groans, over her brother's cheerful litany.

Sean holds up his hands.

"It just seems kinda unfair that the guy comes over, wants to spend some time with you, is making a totally rocking meal, by the way, and you wanted to toss him out on his can..."

"Leave. It. Alone."

"'Cos you were making him about as welcome as bacon at a Bar mitzvah."

"We work together, Sean."

"So did Sam and Niall." he says, unhelpfully.

"...it's – complicated."

"Why?"

"That's what I keep asking." Jane sits down with his own glass.

(Neither of them totally conscious of the fact that she has curled into her 'usual' end of the couch, automatically making room for him, and that he lounges down, puts his glass down on the side table without even looking. Comfortable.)

Sean's eyes dart between them.

"So how long _have_ you been chasing my sister?" (She chokes her wine.) "And don't tell me you aren't."

"She doesn't like me chasing her." Jane shrugs. "She likes being my scary boss-lady too much."

"Oh, she's always been bossy."

And then they both grin at her. She has the distinct sense of being out-numbered. Either one of them by themselves present a challenge, but the combination promises to be unholy.

"So, you're an agent, too?"

"Nope, _freelance_ consultant." He smirks at her, for emphasis. "For some reason, they think I need a keeper."

"Lucky me." Dry sarcasm, and a half-smile at his suggestive expression.

It's a very strange experience, for both of them. They are so used to being treated through the filter of his past, her job. Sean just sees his big sister, and a guy who's interested in her. And the thought is there, that that is who they are, after all – tonight they are just Patrick and Teresa.

00000000000

"Sean!" She bangs her fork down. "You _do not_ tell the raccoon story when people are eating."

Sean grins. So does Jane. It's usually him on the other end of that tone of voice.

Sean is a full-time paramedic and a 'part-time Professional Irishman'. All of Lisbon's sense of fun, unfettered by any of her rules. Or many others, by the sound of it. Jane likes him. Like his sister, he spends his working life helping other people in horrible situations. Unlike her carapace of hard-boiled professionalism, though, Sean adopts an approach of irreverent gallows humour. It means that the conversation is light, funny and frequently rude.

And often embarrassing. Sean has a whole fund of fun little tales to provoke his sister with. She can retaliate, but it has less impact. She just has to endure, aware that Jane is filing away each and every little thing.

"...At least you had the good taste to go finding an Irishman this time."

"Irishman?"

"Ah, now," Sean spreads his arms, "With a name like Patrick, and that gob on him, sure and what else would he be?"

She looks at him. Jane smiles back. He's honestly not sure what his forebears did, though he suspects it was probably more in the line of riverboat grifting than upright citizenry.

"I could probably find some Gaelic ancestry if it makes you happy..."

"Oh, she's proud of her heritage. She's even been known to down a few pints of Guinness on Paddy's Day..."

"Really?" Jane senses fun. Lisbon senses calamity.

"Sean..."

"...and dance on tables."

"I would like to see that."

"Pour her another glass, and I'll see if she's got any decent music..."

"Stop it." She covers her glass. "I'm only little, don't bully me."

They both splutter at the unlikeliness of that.

"Cho's still pissed he never got to see your Mia Wallace impersonation..."

"That was your fault..."

They have so many little memories, some that touch obliquely on work, and others that are purely them. They do not mention anything dark or sad, this evening. This is...a purely social occasion. And so they finish each other's stories, laugh and find their way together, hindsight showing them exactly where they have been heading for so long.

0000000000

"...I'm just in town for the weekend, then I'm dropping in on Niall."

"Oh, good, you can take the presents. I was going to mail them next week." She pulls a face at his bemused expression. "Sam and Robert both have birthdays?"

"Ah, crap." Crooked grin. "Guess we're gift-shopping, then." Turns to Jane. "They wanted a girl, this time, but the Lisbon genes are strong."

"All my cousins are male. I get loomed at a lot." she says.

Jane imagines tiny little Lisbon in amongst her menfolk, and grins.

"So that's where you learnt to fight dirty."

"Very. It's a good thing she's ticklish."

Lisbon's eyes go huge with horror. Jane's smile is beautific.

"Really?" It's a purr.

Sean will happily hand him bullets all evening, just to watch his sister's reaction. He's decided that he approves of this guy – he makes Tree laugh, and he's obviously nuts about her.

There's just one thing he has to know, waiting until his sister excuses herself...

Sean's gaze fixes. Interesting. Jane follows his eye-line. Oh.

"I gotta ask..."

"My wife died." Jane says quietly. The truth falls between them, stark.

"Oh. Oh, crap. Sorry, man. It's just..." Runs a hand through his dark hair, and that's Lisbon's wry half-smile, apologetic but firm.

"I understand." Jane allows his own face to relax back into amiability. But he files away the thought that Sean may have known about the Scumbag, and did not approve. Sean confirms this, voice quiet and low.

"She had...a bad experience."

"I've met him. Asshole."

"Yeah, well, _we_ never met him." He scowls. Jane has the happy thought, that if Sean is in town for any length of time, perhaps he could persuade him and Rigbsy and Cho into some kind of posse. Which may indicate that he has had a little too much to drink. Ah, well. He can always come back for his car tomorrow.

He will not allow that one moment of coldness to dim the warmth of this evening. Gladness in him that her brothers care. No prurient curiosity, just concern that he doesn't break her heart. He can't promise not to, but who can ever promise such a thing? He can only try and be what she thinks he can be. He won't lose her now.

0000000000

She collects the plates together. The men are arguing about obscure guitar bands. She has a strange sense of watching time roll back, a glimpse of Jane as he must have been in his twenties. She has a nasty feeling that she would have been dreadfully susceptible to the irrepressible charm of his surfer days. (Though distinctly less impressed by the later slick and besuited incarnation.) Watches him laugh, and acknowledges that the present day charm is pretty powerful, too.

He's not trying to read Sean, or play mind games, or show off.

And it hits her. He's trying to make a good impression.

Bites her lip to keep from laughing. Her boyfriend has come over, and he's stuck with making nice with his girlfriend's bratty little brother...

...She just put 'boyfriend' and Patrick Jane into the same thought. It is definitely time to put the coffee on. They are too old for silly labels like that...he looks up and across, gives her a little smile, and she finds herself smiling back, feeling fifteen and foolish again.

She does not blush easily. Growing up with brothers, and male cousins, and then spending half her life in law enforcement...well, she's fairly fire-proof by now. But he has a way of looking at her that is positively indecent. She isn't even sure how he does it, but something in his eyes and smile, and the room is suddenly an awful lot warmer. (Completely unaware that she has a way of looking up from under her lashes at him that makes him moan quietly to himself.)

Her love life has been, well, not an unalloyed success to date. A few boyfriends through High school and college, nothing serious. A slightly more intense relationship that had not survived the move to 'Frisco, that was really two people growing up and growing apart, sad but nothing unusual. And then the disaster that was Sam Bosco. And that, too, had been a growing process. A young and inexperienced rookie had become a seasoned agent. She had found her feet, and realized that she needed to stand on them.

Jane is always good at seeing the truth of things, not what people want them to see. She doesn't need to let down her guard with him, because he sees right through it anyway. She doesn't try to fool herself. She knows exactly what he's like, what he is. But it is a little too late to back away, recuse herself. They _are_ involved.

0000000000

Jane has eventually and reluctantly called himself a cab. Sean will obviously quite happily talk until the small hours, but Lisbon – Teresa – is getting blinky. She's curled into the corner of the couch, nodding off over her coffee. He rescues the cup, and she squeaks awake. Jane smiles down at her.

"I'll go down and wait."

"Yeah." Gathers herself together. "I'll see you out."

"Yeah, because he could get lost between here and the door..." Sean smirks. Jane doesn't quite hide his startled laugh, and she swipes her brother round the head.

"Sean, you're an asshole."

And this is a total reversion to her teens, saying goodnight on the doorstep with a grinning brother lurking within earshot...

His smile is nothing like the brash, bright grin with which he usually greets the world. This smile is gentle, and bone-melting, and slightly nervous.

"You've got me, woman. Whether you want me, or not."

She gives him an answering smile that makes his heart turn over.

"Did I ever have a choice?"

She burns her bridges, allows her lips to part slightly in invitation. Common sense shows up and threatens to ruin the party, but has no chance against that sweet hunger. She can't be sorry. She knows she should despise herself for having her principles crumble like sand, but really this has been bearing down on them like a freight train ever since they both admitted to caring.

Jane stops thinking the minute his mouth meets hers.

There is a whooping cheer, and a loud round of applause, and they break apart reluctantly.

"And now I'm going to strangle my brother."

Part of him wants to carry her bodily indoors, and kick her brother out into the street. Growls softly, a noise which makes her breath catch. This is not a safe, sensible, reasonable thing to be happening. She's half glad that Sean is here, because otherwise, things could have become even more complicated, very, very quickly. (The other half is not glad at all.)

"This doesn't happen in the office." She teases him, softly. He nods, solemn face, wicked eyes.

"So...no making out on your desk?"

"No."

"My couch after hours?"

"No."

"Meh. You're no fun, woman." He grins. "We could stall an elevator?"

"_No."_ He can always make her laugh. Her hands against his chest lack strength or conviction. His hands on her waist, gentle possession.

But he allows himself to be pushed out into the night, with one final lingering kiss. Dazed and delighted, he stares out of the cab window, not thinking, content just to be, for a while. Tonight is not about darkness and vengeance, or the past, or fear for the future.

He's been a husband, a father. Then he was a widower. And now he's...a boyfriend, again. Not quite a lover (eyes closed, smiles as he savours the memory, feel of her against him, soft curves beneath his hands, and her lips...) Not yet. But tonight, there is no guilt in hoping, no regrets, just the fragile beginnings of a cautious happiness.


	10. Jealous Guy

_-A/N I apologise for...well, them.-_

_._

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Jealous Guy

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.

The young officer at the scene gives a worried smile, mutters something incoherent, and then bolts.

"I don't understand it." Lisbon huffs. "I can be talking to someone, and then they just back off. Am I that scary?"

"It's not you, Boss..." Van Pelt stops, rabbit in headlights.

"Oh?"

Van Pelt swallows, looks away and speaks fast.

"It's just...most of the guys in the building already think, and then any other guy that comes near you, and, well, he usually starts glaring, and believe me, that's actually quite scary, even if he doesn't have a gun..."

"What?"

Van Pelt can't believe she hasn't noticed. He is almost as lacking in subtlety as Rigsby, and that's saying something. (The guy from Payroll won't set foot on their floor any more.)

"Jane." Ventures a nervous smile. "Ever since I've worked here, he's always been a bit...territorial about you."

"At least he hasn't tried peeing in the corner of my office yet." Lisbon mutters. Van Pelt snorts, horrified laughter. "Most guys already think, huh?"

"'Fraid so, Boss."

"Damn." Face-palm, torn between anger and amusement. "I'm going to beat the crap out of him."

"He might like that." Van Pelt says, before she can stop herself. Lisbon groans.

0000000000000

"Dragging me into your office – that's how rumours get started, Lisbon."

"You're not being helpful."

"I'm not acting any differently to usual."

"That's what isn't very helpful." Part of her badly wants to laugh. The rest of her is mad at him. "Did you really have to...intimidate that officer?"

"Yes." He's completely unabashed. "He was leering at you. And that's my job."

"Oh, for..." Chucks the stress-ball at him. He snatches it out of the air, turn of his wrist, and she resists the impulse to chuck anything else at him. He's sure to be able to juggle. "Be serious."

"I am."

"So am I."

"I'm sitting over here, and not touching." He actually sits down on his hands. "See? Best behaviour." A very wicked grin. "You could cuff me again, if you're really worried."

"Like that works." Shakes herself. "Stop playing the fool, Jane. The case."

"Someone has been calling the house for the last week, whenever she was out."

"How did you...oh, the housekeeper."

"Señora Lopez was very helpful."

"She wouldn't speak to us." Frowns. "She doesn't speak English."

"Well, I don't have a badge. And _puedo hablar Espa__ñ__ol_. With a shocking Texas accent, true, but it's better than the High School vocabulary Rigsby was using."

"You do have your uses. I'll get Van Pelt to trace the calls..."

"...and then, after work, we can go out for dinner." States it, his eyes hopeful.

(…..A long two days haunting the offices, whilst she took time off with her brother. He'd tried to be good about it, had tried not to resent the fact that the serious criminal elements of California appeared to be taking time off as well...His phone had startled him, familiar tone that made his heart race.

"_...knew he'd be on speed-dial. Patrick? My sister loooooves yooou....argh!"_

Crash. Pause. Muffled laughter. Lisbon's voice, breathless.

"_Jane...oh, stop moping on your couch, I'm back tomorrow...argh, Sean, you bas..." _Click.

He'd laid back and laughed.....)

Bosco gives a perfunctory tap, opens the door. He's not best pleased to find Jane sitting in her office. (She's not best pleased that he didn't wait for a response.) They both turn enquiring faces towards him.

"Am I interrupting?"

"Yes." says Jane.

"No." Lisbon frowns at him. Small struggle of wills in their gaze. "We have a lead on our case, and Jane was just getting on it."

She doesn't want the pair of them squaring up in her office. Needs to assert control.

The blond man gets out of his chair with leisurely insolence.

"I wouldn't dream of disobeying my supervising agent."

"Jane..." He pauses at the door, and she tilts her chin, with a slight smile. "Yes."

This obscure exchange obviously conveys something. He gives her a sudden wide grin, nods and ducks out of the office. Turns her gaze to Bosco, and he only realizes the warmth that has been in it when he sees it die away.

"And what can I help you with?"

"Just a little revision on the Renfrew case. I'm trying to work out what this police report about an intruder was all about..."

It doesn't take long to explain, but he's appalled all over again at the sheer unpredictability of the man. And his ability to drag other people (Teresa) into his mess.

"I never thought you'd be happy working with such unconventional methods." Tries to inject a little humour. "What else does he do, dowse for suspects?"

"He hasn't tried that, yet." She's not going to let him denigrate. "He's extremely good at reading body language, Sam. I wouldn't advise lying to him." Tilts her head at his sceptical expression. "For example..._are_ you thinking of running for office?"

Bosco remembers that jolt of shock from the first meeting. He'd assumed someone had been loose-lipped.

"I'd...considered it, but with the divorce..." Head snaps up. "No, someone must have told him."

"I'd only just finished briefing the team on your arrival." she says. Eyes turn stormy. "I'd only just found out myself."

Wincingly aware that his initial approach to her had seemed to encroach on her professionalism, now seeks to redeem himself.

"If this particular case is...re-opening, it will be a Serial matter, Teresa. I didn't make the policy, either."

"But you marched in here and basically conducted an all-out attack on Jane."

"I felt that his personal interest made him overly involved."

"He found his family in bits. I would say that makes him very involved." Calms herself. "We're extremely lucky that he decided to continue working with us."

Lucky?

"Why have you been stuck with him for so long, anyway?"

"We work well together." She shrugs. "I've never requested his transfer. And neither has he."

Catches him by surprise - he'd assumed that she had had no choice.

"I think we need to establish a few rules here." Her tone makes it clear that this is not a discussion. "You might be Lead Agent on any case that pertains to Red John, but until we know that a case does, it's a Serious Crimes case, and that makes it mine. My team, my decisions. My discretion as to whether I take the advice of my consultant." She can't set it out any more clearly than that. "I know you don't like his methods – hell, there are times when I don't like his methods - but he does have useful insights. Would you be prepared to trust _my_ judgement?"

She watches him, quizzical.

This is a reversal. For years, she had been the junior. Followed his lead. She has had five years in which to learn and grow, but in his mind, she is still the green agent he was grooming for greatness.

Is he prepared to accept her as an equal?

Frustration and confusion in him.

"I...just..." Stands up. "Fine. We try it your way. But I'm not convinced that he's any use in the field."

"I am." (Shotgun blast, smell of cordite...) "I'm his supervising agent, he's my...problem." Her mouth curves, and he remembers that strange sense of humour he never quite understood.

He pauses at the door.

"Maybe...we should have dinner, sometime? Catch up."

She stares at him, honestly shocked. Realizes, with something akin to amused horror, that Jane was absolutely right.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Sam."

"Are you seeing someone?"

She can imagine his reaction if she tells him the truth. And that is so far from funny, that it lends a chill to her voice and eyes.

"That's absolutely none of your business." Takes a breath, softens her tone. "What we had..." (A grubby little affair, and doesn't that make you cringe, now?) "...it was over a long time ago." Finds a smile. "We are both very different people now."

00000000000

Jane is leaving the kitchen area, cup in one hand, tossing a stress ball with the other. Then, with no apparent effort or aim, he fires the thing down the corridor and back into Lisbon's office. There is a muffled yelp, a laugh and then the door shuts firmly.

"Her fielding skills are dreadful." Jane takes a mouthful of tea, eyes Bosco over the cup. "Yes?"

"I think we got off on the wrong foot..."

"Oh, no. We both know that you think I'm an irresponsible, reckless glory-seeker." Jane gives him a sunny smile, but his eyes are flint. "I'm not in it for the glory."

Bosco is slightly startled by the cool unfriendliness of that gaze. He'd been expecting to have to rebuff the man, had set out his approach accordingly. Had not expected Teresa to be so partisan. Or for there to be such a very strong intelligence facing him.

The record had led him to expect a slick, neurotic charlatan. This man reminds him instead rather too strongly of certain people he has met in the past; usually after arresting them. Dangerous and charming. The charm is not so much in evidence at this moment, but the edge of danger is, taut shoulders and hard eyes. A couple of weeks ago, this man had shot someone, without hesitation. Now Bosco can believe it.

Then Jane relaxes, which is even more alarming, mask of amiability bone-deep.

"You'll appreciate that I'm a little unsettled. It's been a rough couple of weeks. Luckily, with the support of Agent Lisbon and the team, I'm getting through it." Tilts his head. "She feels that we should be able to work together."

"I have reservations about that..."

"Oh, so do I. Luckily, we're not required to actually like each other." That light smile is unnerving. "Which is a good thing, because I certainly don't like you. But I'm sure that doesn't bother you, since you are so unconcerned by my approval."

Bosco wrestles down his temper. Long practice at facing cool and clever men with smart mouths.

"I don't like you, either. And yes, I do think you are reckless and arrogant. But my concern is that you don't hamper my investigation with your antics."

"Well, as far as I can see, it doesn't become your investigation unless we know that Red John is actively involved. And my 'antics' are none of your concern, either. I'm not an agent, I don't report to you. I work _with_ the CBI. It's a subtle distinction." Something moves behind those eyes. "And rest assured, Agent Bosco, when...we...find Red John, hampering your investigation will be the last thing on my mind."

He smiles, then, wide and bright, and turns towards the bull-pen and his couch.

"Oh, by the way," Speaks quietly over his shoulder. "She won't ever come back to you. She's got her own life, her own career, and however much it burns you, you aren't part of it any longer."

God, how the hell?...

He needs coffee.

There are two guys already in the rest area. One is a big, lanky man with a long, mean face, all battered bone. The other man is short, a sloppy dresser with Slavic cheekbones and slicked back fair hair.

"...so he says I'll have to see if she'll let me borrow him..." Taller man shuffles to one side to let Bosco get to the coffee machine. "The Perros have a bit of a thing about mystic crap, we'll see if he can't put a scare up 'em with that weird shit he does."

They both stare at him.

"So...you just had a run-in with Jane?" Man offers a hand. "I'm Sibley."

"Chenkov. What'd he do? Tell you the colour of your underwear?"

Bosco forces a smile with the handshakes.

"Senior Agent Sam Bosco."

Sibley stares at him, then gives a raucous laugh.

"Oh, man...so _you're_ the guy?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Shit, man, you really went and blew that big time. Chenkov, our man here is the one tried to get the Mindfreak bounced."

"Fuck, no." Chenkov grins, which is very nasty even without the mouthful of gum. "First rule of Fight Club..."

"Do Not Threaten _any_ of 'Mother' Teresa's babies..."

"But 'specially not _that_ one."

Bosco feels a lurch of horrid uncertainty as they snigger to each other.

"Are you suggesting that they..." He doesn't even know how to frame it.

"Got a 'thing'?" Sibley shrugs. "I mean, hell, nobody knows for sure..."

"Guess what we're sayin' is, if he likes havin' his balls busted..."

"... she's just the gal to do it."

They punch fists. Chenkov shakes his head.

"Seriously – you don't ever mess with Lisbon. She's one righteous tough-ass agent. Nobody else wanted the hassle of babysitting that basket-case full-time, and whatever they got works, y'know?"

Sibley takes a slurp of coffee.

"Crap, I just hope you haven't pissed her off too badly. I really wanted him for this." Dumps his empty mug into the sink, and heaves his long body upright. "C'mon, Chenk, you be my human shield."

"Oh, thanks." Runs a hand back over his hair, simpers. "I just ain't the right kinda blond..."

Sibley gives another dirty snigger, gives Bosco a smirk.

"Look, they got a capture rate makes the rest of us look stupid, so unless she rides him topless round the bull-pen..."

"...for which we could sell freakin' tickets..."

"...everyone's gonna turn a blind eye. What's the big deal anyhow?"

And they stroll off, leaving a very shocked man staring into space, and wondering where it all went so very wrong.

He can't take this to Minelli, remembers the man's words from before -

... "The man is a nightmare. But she's never seen fit to put a personal complaint over my desk about him, and I trust her judgement."

But now he wonders, with a gnawing in him that might be fear, might be jealousy, if there is more than idle work-place gossip here. If he can truly trust her judgement, or if she is being dragged under the spell of someone very dangerous. He's never thought her to be a stupid woman, but in his mind, she is still the young detective he sponsored, still the young woman who caused him to kick over the traces of an already fractured marriage. Now he sees all that strength and beauty and ambition, grown away from him. Falling under the influence of a man one step away from the type of creature he hunts.

No, this isn't jealousy. This is concern. Just...concern for a colleague.

What could he possibly have to be jealous about, after all?


	11. Past Imperfect

-Just me, on a total weird-fest again.-

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.

Past Imperfect

.

.

"Look, I didn't hypnotize anyone..."

"You killed a chicken!"

"I sacrificed it. And now the OC guys are happy, because those two creeps can't talk fast enough."

"Jane, if the Animal Rights people ever find out..."

"Meh. They won't. Anyway, I was humane."

His shirt hangs open, revealing the elaborate inkwork over his chest. That had given her a shock, even though she knows it's fake. As is most of the blood. The gang-banger who'd ripped open his shirt to look for a wire had recoiled with an oath, an automatic crossing of himself. An intricate rendition of a grinning skeleton with her robes and crown and scythe...

Sibley, ambling up with Chenkov at his heels, shakes his head.

"Dunno about those suckers, but he scared the shit out of me..."

"It was like fucking 'Poltergeist'." Chenkov is in awe. "That creepy voice..."

"Glossolalia." Jane shrugs. "Anyone can learn to do it."

"...I mean, he's chanting this weird shit and waving this fucking knife around, and these guys are crapping themselves, and he's standing there with blood all over him and this shit-eating grin, and just says 'did you get it on tape?' Fucking awesome, man."

"It's a shame we couldn't get a snake." Jane's tone is regretful.

"A _snake_?"

"A python would have really added to the drama. I was never keen on the rattlers."

Lisbon looks at him. Semi-naked, and draped with a python? Okay, that's far more wrong than she wants to be dealing with. Shuts her eyes, and takes a deep breath. Sibley and Chenkov are clapping him on the shoulder, boisterous and cheerful farewells, joking that they'll get him a snake next time...She doesn't want there to be a next time.

She shakes her head.

"You just conned a confession out of two hardened criminals with a couple of voice tricks, some fake blood and a chicken?"

"I've done worse, believe me." His voice is low, and there's old pain in his eyes. "Faith is a powerful tool."

This has called up a lot of memories, and few of them are good.

"It was crazy and unethical and dangerous."

"But it worked."

"And if it hadn't?"

"You see, this is why I didn't outline my plan to you before-hand."

"You marched into the headquarters of the Perros de la Muerte with only a knife and no back-up."

"I had back-up."

Her angry scowl dismisses the OC.

"You didn't have me." Slips out before she can catch it back. "I had to find out from Despatch."

Heading over in her car, fear and fury mixed, aware that she was treading on toes, holding herself back from rushing in, demanding to know what the hell they thought they were doing. They had made space for her in the van, and she doesn't realise until afterwards that they had not even questioned her presence. And then...that voice on the tape, barely recognisable, guttural syllables and genuine fear and panic in the response she could hear, the obscene sound of the knife...She hadn't been sure what to think, when the OC finished bundling the men out into the waiting van, and she was left looking at him, torn clothes and something wild in his face, coming down off the high of the performance.

Last night, they had gone out for a quiet meal, laughed and talked of nothing very much, and shared one deep, sweet kiss goodnight on the doorstep. He had been careful, considerate. This is a different man, one she's not sure that she knows.

His face grows serious, and he looks away.

"I...didn't want you to see me."

Blood and flame and darkness, calling up things in himself he'd long forgotten, tried to forget. Dancing with his demons, and the rage had found a wave to ride. A black and twisted delight in the fear, his and theirs. She hadn't been there to control him...to prevent him from tipping over into a spiral of something deep and dangerous. The shadow of it is still in his eyes, his tight grin, that edgy, feral quality.

00000000000000

Pheromones. It has to be. Within two minutes of being back in the office, a very large number of female employees find it necessary to walk through their floor. He's got the blood, fake and real, off himself, the gym showers, but he's just discarded the wrecked shirt, searching through his desk for a clean one.

"Woah." Rigsby stares. "That's never real..."

"Spraypaint. It needs solvent to get it off. And someone to help me."

('Someone' realizes who he has in mind, scowls at him.)

"...?" Cho shakes his head. "Do we even want to ask?"

"Sibley had the bright idea of persuading Jane to pose as a voodoo priest..."

"...la santa muerte, actually, it's a bit different..."

"...and frighten a confession out of a couple of suspects by threatening to take their souls."

"Did it work?" Rigsby asks.

"Singing like canaries." Cheerful grin as he buttons the shirt. "They had grubby little souls anyway, I didn't really want them."

Cho (who still has a jar of ashes in his desk) looks deeply nervous.

"You shouldn't mess with that stuff."

"I agree." Van Pelt frowns. "Isn't that like black magic, or something?"

"Something."

"How was that even ethical?"

"Freedom of religion." Jane says, promptly. "I mean, Rigsby might buy the idea of assault with a deadly chicken, but I don't think anyone else will."

He's still charged with the energy of the performance, senses thrilling with it, wild and wired. Soon, the crash will come, and he rather dreads what the night might bring. But for now, he holds the balance between, all spark and charm.

000000000000

She's hardly surprised when the DS follows her home, and she waits by her car as he unfolds out of it. The rush has gone now, and he looks drawn, tired and jittery.

"They can't keep using you as some - party trick!" she snaps. "Not if it messes you up like this."

"I'm already messed up." He says, bleakly.

He knows what he could become, if circumstances had not seen fit to place Lisbon in the path of his destruction. Without her, he would be lost, an amusing sideshow, with no brakes, a fast track ride to a bad crash.

"Talk to me." She doesn't usually ask. But now she feels she has a...right. "Talk to me – Patrick."

He doesn't share. There are things he has never told anybody.

It strikes him, with a painful and strange clarity, that Lisbon will understand, as his wife never could. There had been no darkness in her life, until...(No.) They both understand what it is like to have an absence in your life, a loss where parenting should be, that sometimes you have to find your own inner resources.

He's going to rip open old wounds, but she needs to know, perhaps, what kind of man he is. And he hopes that she will not turn away from him.

He takes a deep breath.

"Well, you know that I was born in Missouri, but we never stayed in any place for long, particularly not after my mother died. My father hit the road with me to prevent Child Services taking me away. We had to keep moving, ahead of trouble."

"Gambling?" She knows who taught him to play poker, after all. It would be easy to leave it there, let it pass. But he cannot take the easy path, not with Lisbon. She deserves truth.

"Sometimes. We did travel with a few carnivals, mind games and card tricks. Mostly," He closes his eyes, can't look at her, "he was a con-man. And one of his scams was faith healing. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. The Reverend Patrick Jane."

She snorts. She can't help it. He opens his eyes, startled, and she sobers.

"That's what you ran away from." She shakes her head. "I...just, you...a... No."

"No." he agrees, and the corner of his mouth even turns up a little. "A lie too far, even for me." He's tearing himself open for her, bitter shame. "I helped him, though. Before. And then the apple didn't fall too far from the tree, after all. Same lies and tricks and – cruelty."

"That's not who you are any more."

How different is he, now? Marked by tragedy, but the same mind-games and manipulation in him. Less patience with the world, but he's never been blind to the darker side of it. The fractures have simply left him tired, less adept at hiding the rage and contempt.

"No?" He gestures down at himself. "I've spent my life lying to people, tricking them. I don't wonder you don't trust me. But this...is all I have to offer."

Pours the broken pieces into her hands, hopes the edges will not cut too deeply.

"No." She takes his face between her hands. "You're going to be a better person than that, if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming."

He doesn't believe that he can be a better person, but he believes that she thinks he can be. He finds that he wants to try, for her. Leans forward, rests his forehead to hers.

"My father's first rule was - 'stay away from cops, because they are always trouble'."

"Believe it." They rest there for a moment. "Now let's go get that scary crap off you."

His shoulders express every bit of the weariness, the despair he won't voice, but the shadows in his eyes lift a little as she smiles at him, draws his head down.

He'll take his demons home with him, fight them into the small hours, but he'll also take away the memory of her kiss, a small talisman against the darkness. No faith in himself, but he has faith in her.


	12. Fall At Your Feet

Fall At Your Feet

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.

An all-too-familiar pair of shoes in her hallway, leather cracking, toes a little scuffed. A familiar jacket and vest slung across a chair. Patrick Jane, stretched asleep on the couch, hair still slightly damp from a hasty shower, his shirt buttoned loosely over a chest now bare of ink, cup of tea grown cold beside him.

He had edged out of the bathroom, picked at the sandwich she had offered him, not really meeting her eyes. Truth is a currency with him, his past an emotional mine-field, and revelation leaves him raw and confused. She does not push him, merely lets him sit quietly. And then when she had looked over, eventually worried by his continued silence, it was to find that he had crashed out.

And now she sits, afraid to wake him and grown suddenly tender as she watches. This isn't the feigned repose of the office. This is abandon, true rest. There is a guilty pleasure in her, as she takes advantage of his absence to stare. It isn't like she doesn't know by heart the exact geometries of his face, but she rarely gets to just look at him. Much of his obvious charm rests in the puckish humour with which he greets the world – she likes to think that this is something special just for her. No mask, laughter and pain swept away by sleep. Sea-coloured eyes hidden. Faint golden stubble. Pulls her eyes from the tempting triangle of skin, resists the urge to put her lips to the hollow of his throat.

She had never supposed that his father had been a particularly good or honest man. The nature of the con had been a surprise, but not a shock. She is, after all, a detective, and she has the best of reasons for remembering all the little facts about this man. With each piece of the puzzle he lets slip, she can build her picture. There had been more than a touch of the charismatic preacher in his stage shows, and she honestly can't decide which is worse, using physical or emotional pain to milk people. He has done both. There is cruelty in him, a streak of rage. And there is the tender, funny man she knows, the one who can make her laugh. And there is the broken, tired man with the wounded eyes.

The strange mix in him, where the fault-lines run, the dark currents of his mind. He's not the lonely little boy, the charming drifter, the street magician, any more, but they live in him. And so does that darkness, the ruthless and crazy side, that will face down armed lunatics, murderers and street gangs with nothing more than that sharp smile and his brilliant, fractured mind.

Just him. As he is. A flawed, tired human being. And she loves him.

She tiptoes past, collects the cup. Moves quietly, but in a moment, she hears him. Soft sounds of movement, footsteps to the kitchen door. He leans against the door frame, smiles at her.

"It's late. I should go."

It isn't even a conscious thought. She looks at him, golden, warm from sleep, just himself.

She watches her own hands undo a shirt button. His hands jerk, hover, for once unsure.

"I'm only human." There's almost a note of pleading in his voice.

"So am I." She says quietly. Undoes another button, and keeps her eyes on his, deliberately slides her hand inside his shirt.

She knows what touching him will do. Every muscle in his neck tenses and his eyes flare dark.

Poised on a knife-edge, his heart beneath her fingers. And she breaks him with a smile.

Still meeting her eyes, he slips the ring from his finger, leaves it on the table.

She slides the shirt from his shoulders, as she runs her hands up over his chest, tangles her hands in his hair. Holds her against him, cradles her, as they exchange soft, starving kisses, and their mouths barely part, as she steps backwards.

She leads, and he follows.

000000000000

He's less assured than her fantasies, infinitely sweeter. Without his suit, without his armour, without defences, just a man with nervous hands and an eager mouth. Almost too gentle, until she tells him what she likes, directs those subtle, clever fingers, gives them licence. They learn each other, heat and skin, laughing softly.

Each touch of her mouth is a brand. Skin glows like a pearl in the night, her soft hair caught in his fingers as she moves across him. She has always thought him a beautiful fallen angel. The reality is so much more, warm skin and hard muscles, and she hears his breath moan as she traces the point of her tongue over him. Runs her nails lightly down his biceps, forearms, holds him palm to palm. Face in shadow, he can feel the soft swell of her breasts against him as her delicate weight pins him.

Finds her mouth with his. Hungry tongue demands her. Slides his own hands up her arms, shoulders, back, until he can sit and cradle her against him. Relinquishes her lips, to graze softly down the arch of her throat. Delicate strength in her, her scent, and he must find new maps in his mind, new territories beneath his touch. He lingers above her heart, and she bites her lip, hands lost in his curls.

Tumbles her backwards, so now she lies beneath him, continues to tease with lips and tongue as she gasps, and she feels the curve of his smile. They will always seek to wrest control, but this is tender play, private war. Butterfly kisses trailing down to the curve of her hipbones.

Nuzzles, softly insistent, and her breath hitches as his tongue flicks lightly, dips. Gentle, agonizingly delicate, toying with her until she whimpers in pure frustration and he does something, light moist touch in just that place that makes her cry out, leaves her trembling. Tastes herself on his lips, and then he's looking into her face, mutely asking permission, eyes urgent and hungry.

Cat-blink of her eyes, dark and dazed...She lays her own hands upon him, and then the cool slickness unravelled by nimble fingers, and then she is waiting for him, arches to him, demands.

No hesitation, no haste. Her gasp lost in the heat of his mouth, his soft grunt lost in her delighted laugh. Torments her, the slow strength of him. He wants her to beg, and she refuses, curses him with endearments and epithets. Holding her gaze, he grins, feral, and she responds, hard kiss to his mouth that is almost a bite. Moving with measured passion, then, matching their rhythm, pulse and heartbeat and racing breath. Nothing in the world but this...sweat and skin and the sweet delight of friction building... He lasts until she mews his name, moves, sinuous hard swells, and he's falling, victor and vanquished.

Tangled together, pale limbs and bedsheets, the beat of the bloodmusic slowing, and he's shaking from it, kissing the sweat from her skin, murmuring his love. Soft broken laughter as she trembles, blinks away the fireworks and holding him to her.

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When he slides from the bed, her heart clenches, old fear. She turns over, and he sees the rigid line of her spine, the desolate little hunch of her shoulders. He gets it, and his face sets. That bastard.

"I only need the bathroom." He says. Brushes one soft kiss on the smooth bit of shoulder he can see.

She is still huddled, when he returns, and he wraps himself around her, nose into her neck, nuzzles until he feels her relax. He will not leave her now. No man who has ever had the privilege of touching that beautiful porcelain skin, of possessing any of that sweetness, should have ever been able to think of such a thing. The male animal in him growls proudly, settles itself to guard, and the lover tightens his arms about his woman, and sleeps.

She isn't used to having a man in her bed any more. (Painfully unused to having one that stays the entire night.) Drifts in and out of sleep, finally wakes early.

He's slipped down the bed in the night, sleeping nose to navel, arm slung across her thighs. Runs her hand through his hair, feels his mouth curve. Wonders what he will say, hopes he remembers where he is, (who she is) a thought which stills her hand. He makes a little grumble, butts against her, and she has to smile.

Jane, who knows exactly where he is, begins to kiss her, his mouth tracing softly up her skin. Opens his eyes and smiles up at her.

He didn't think he could ever be here, and he feels...owned, in a way he hasn't for so very long.

"Is this where I discover how horrible you are before your morning coffee?" he asks tenderly.

All the tension leaves her, and she shoves at him, laughing. Still here, still him.

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She could get far too used to having her coffee brought to her. And to the sight of him, all bedhead hair and her too-short robe, which makes her laugh, too. He sits on the bed, settles her into his lap, warm skin and quilt together. She runs her hand over his chin.

"You need a shave."

"And my toothbrush." Turns his head, kisses her fingers. "I do have to leave at some point."

"That little thing called work." She agrees, and he feels her good mood seep from her.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Shut me out. Not now."

"I don't think I could." She admits.

"Well, no. But don't try it." He tightens his arms round her, and she finds that her head fits very comfortably into the crook of his neck.

They can't pretend that this doesn't change anything. For a start, he really doesn't want to go to work today. He wants to stay in this bed and make love to her until neither of them can see straight. Wants the world to go away and let him lose himself in her. But he moves round so that he can look into her eyes.

"I will never treat you with a lack of respect. Understand that. Believe that." The kiss is tender, a promise. She has never seen him look so...honest, no darkness in his smile this morning.

"This does change things, though."

"Yes." He pries the coffee cup out of her hands. "It means that although I am not allowed to touch you during office hours, when we are off duty, you get to do all those wicked things to me that you've been fantasizing about for months. And," he has been stealthily sliding the quilt away, until his hands can rove, blind and wicked purpose, "so do I."

She feels slightly self-conscious in the light of dawn, a feeling which lasts until he begins to lavish kisses on every bit of her he can reach, and then she surrenders. This morning is quick and naughty and fun, as he claims her back from her worry and demands her attention, all vigour and excitement, and proving that he remembers everything she told him last night...

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He puts on his suit, but he doesn't think the armour will ever fit so tightly again. Hesitates a second over the ring, troubled. Two fingers rest lightly against his chest, and he looks up at her.

"I..."

"Help me with the clasp." She holds out her necklace to him, and he takes it, understands all that she says to him in that one gesture.

Butterfly kiss as he fastens it, brushed across her neck, silent thank you, because there are no words.

Slides the ring back onto his finger, into the groove worn by time. Puts out his hand to her, and laces his fingers with hers.

There is no betrayal here. Only love, and the memory of love, and a world big enough for both.


	13. The Tiger Sniffs The Rose

_A/N - I quite appreciate that we are all playing with other people's toys here, but some folk, and you know who you are, are, shall we say, borrowing fairly liberally from me. There's an etiquette - either ask or credit, okay? I'd extend the same courtesy. Thanks._

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The Tiger Sniffs The Rose...

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A different exhaustion this morning, a deep, delicious ache in him, a feeling he'd almost forgotten. Fascinated to think that that tough little woman had been in his arms scant hours ago, wrapped around him...He might be able to discipline his mind, but his body is quite simply enslaved. He wants her again, soon and often.

He'd been prepared to take things slowly, to try and curb his reckless desire, aware that she could run. He might have remembered that his Lisbon was neither patient nor fearful once she had decided her way.

"You can look as tough as you like this morning, woman, but I know you better..." he growls softly in her ear.

"Get in the damn car, Jane."

"Oh, road trip."

"I'm not necking in a pull-out with you." Takes a deep breath. "You'll just have to control yourself until we're off-duty."

He grins, wide and wicked, and she bites back her own smile.

"Can I come over this evening?"

"Since when do you ask?" Little flutter in her belly.

"Since I intend to be staying over." He says calmly, eyes dark. She feels her breath hitch, gives him a cool look.

"I'd better get a good dinner first."

"You are going to drive me insane."

"It's a short journey." She grins at him. He makes a little growling noise.

The strangest thing is how little difference it does make to their working lives. She still calls him by his surname, can't quite think of him as Patrick, and he can make her surname come out as a lazy, dirty purr that is far sexier than any pet-name she has ever had. She has one rule – whilst she's wearing the badge, he can't touch. It drives him crazy, but secretly, he likes the thrill of it.

They can't not touch completely, though - light fingertip touches in conversation, arm and shoulder. His hand hovers above her back as he escorts her through doors. They stand in each other's personal space without discomfort, body language like a dance. But this has always been their way, and only a select few will have any suspicion that things are now exactly what certain gossip has long held to be true.

They still fight. He is insubordinate, irreverent, provokes conflict and ignores any semblance of procedure. She still tries to reign him in, strike the balance between her professional duty and the benefit from the undeniable talent he has for producing results. She realizes that Jane expects her to fight back, stop him if need be, complements her strengths with his own, even if they disagree as to who is in charge...

"Every magician needs a beautiful assistant."

"Hah! You're reading this all wrong. Every crime-fighting heroine needs a wise-cracking sidekick."

His face brightens, wicked delight.

"I'll happily be a sidekick, if you'll wear an outfit...oooh, like Catwoman?"

She slaps him...

But now, they have a whole new world outside of work, too...

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They are both private people, and see no need to share what they have with the rest of the world. He wouldn't deny it if confronted, would admit proudly to the relationship. But he is selfish, too – she is his, and he resents having to share her with anyone, wants to keep her kisses, her caresses, her laughter, all his alone. Regards it as his duty, his right, to make sure that it is only his name she ever cries, only his touch she ever remembers. Only him, in her thoughts, and in her bed.

His own memories, folded away now, a past that no longer destroys him. The shift in him continues, a growing urge and conviction, no longer pure vengeance now, but also a visceral need to protect, the two forces in him ceasing their conflict, merging, all his reasons with one goal. Instead of diverting him, he realizes that this just makes him stronger. She is his woman, now, his new reason for being, inheritor of all the passion and devotion that belonged to others before, and that now he lays at her feet.

He cannot give his woman the love, the life she deserves, until the threat is no longer with them.

There are still nights when the bad dreams overwhelm, rising up out of the dark. Then, there is nothing to do but to put her arms around him, gently lead him back into the waking world, hold him until he stops shaking. Sometimes, their tears mingle. Sometimes, they make love.

She's growing used to waking with the weight of a warm arm snaked about her. He leaves his arrogance outside the door, a giver, not a taker. This is the place he could lie most easily to her, and yet, she thinks this is the most honest she has known him.

There's a spare toothbrush in the bathroom, now, and he has 'his' side of the bed. When she finds herself putting both teabags and condoms into her grocery basket as a regular thing, she knows that the rot has set in.

Impossible to put a label on him. Boyfriend, lover, colleague, friend...he's just himself, Patrick Jane, sweet and funny and obnoxious by turns, capable of anything, her wicked, loving showman. She knows what his wife saw in him now, that giddy, dizzy sensation of being at the centre of his whole world, how intoxicating that is.

But because she loves him, because she knows what he is capable of, she keeps one wary eye open.

It terrifies her, how vulnerable he is. Of course, she's been lonely in her life. But her early years had been happy, and she and her brothers were still close. She had always had friends at school, college, work. She's never been alone, the way he is. Worry in her, for the older damage at work. She has a few of the pieces now, little shards of the man, to fit into the pattern. His life has shifted so far, so fast, every few years a completely different world, slipping from one to the the next with nothing to hold him.

And now she must find out if she is a strong enough anchor. Iron settles in her. She will have to be.

It still hurts her that there are moments when she fears that his desire for vengeance is stronger than his desire for her – she fights to keep him, worries that he will go somewhere too dark for her to follow. They both have ghosts. But she has made her peace with them, a silent vow in the darkness of one night, when she had held him through a nightmare, through his murmurs of love and promises of safety – he is her charge now, and she will not let him become something less than he is, for any of them.


	14. Drive Me To Distraction

_-Men and their cars have a weird, symbiotic relationship, in my experience. But then I'm married to a petrol-head ex-rally driver. Hence the car bore detail quoted...(yes, he's driven a DS)-_

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Drive Me to Distraction

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"Sam, this case isn't Serial – some low-life bookie got on the wrong side of someone. If he hadn't been left on the court steps, we wouldn't be involved. Hell, if it goes to anyone else, it will be the Gangshow upstairs."

Bosco's own frown deepens at the mention of the OC Unit. She isn't sure how they've upset him, but they upset everyone, so she doesn't pursue it.

"I have no intention of butting in..."

But, she thinks...

"...but I still think I should come along and experience the work of the Unit in the field..."

She frowns at him. Bosco sighs. He's trying to be reasonable, has acceded to her request to utilize that...man, doesn't see why there is a problem.

Lisbon, who hears the unspoken term 'supervision' behind his words, and has had two years of picking up on Jane's techniques of observation, now, can see a big problem. Two of them, in fact. She doesn't like the way they act around each other – they bring out the worst in each other, and whilst she is reasonably sure that Bosco does not know the true extent of her...involvement with Jane, they both have a possessive manner about them which puts her teeth on edge. It makes her feel ridiculous, to be squabbled over by two grown men as if she were some kind of prize. It's undignified and insulting.

Odd that it should be this man, so practical and professional, who is still living in the past. To him, she is still his rookie agent, still his...ex-mistress. (Flinches internally, every time.) She had thought their affair (be honest with yourself, woman) long over, long resolved (because sometimes you _do_ need to move on, try to forget) but it seems that he clings to something, wants something from her that she is no longer prepared to give him.

She is with another man, now. One who is making a painful effort to move forward, to try to live again. The professional lines are still a little blurred, but there is no deep shame in her when she is with him.

"I can't see how it will be useful to you." Unless you are looking for ammunition. "If you want to be an observer on the case, then that's your call."

My team, my rules. Very clear. She's not sure he's completely absorbed that, particularly not when he says,

"You can brief me on the way. I'm parked at the end of the lot."

Something snaps, as he starts to walk, expecting her to follow.

"I've already designated transport." Crisp and angry. "And I have my team briefed."

Turns on her heel, and strides down the hall, brisk enough that he's left gaping, and by the time he makes it out of the door, she's already getting into what has to be the most unofficial looking vehicle he has ever seen. The sleek elegant lines, the silver-blue shimmer, make it stand out from the dark, blocky, practical SUV's.

He might have known who would drive something like that, shutting the door behind her.

"She's a goddess."

"What?" Bosco blinks.

"Déesse. Citroen DS 21. Pallas trim, but the basic chassis is an early 71 model. Classic." Jane lifts a shoulder. "If you're lucky enough to possess something beautiful, you should take good care of it."

Gives a cheerful smile that does not touch his eyes, and slides into the driver's seat.

Bosco, left uneasy, and watching the car turn out of the gate, the black SUV, with Cho at the wheel, following behind.

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Cort, 300 pounds of pure mean bastard, decides that he don't feel like being taken downtown. Busting out ain't gonna be a problem. The gorilla and the gook are cuffing Mikey and Cy. Red looks like she might be fun to take down, and how, but she got a gun, so he guesses he'll just run right over pretty boy, maybe mess his face up a little as he does...

'Cept some evil little bitch comes out of nowhere, sticks a taser in him before he's done more than knock the faggot on his ass...

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Jane, rather grey in the face, clutching his wrist. Flexes his fingers, winces.

"I think it's just sprained..."

"You can't drive." They look at each other in consternation. Then Jane grits his teeth.

"The keys are in my pocket."

...He's letting her drive his car.

She spends a few minutes fussing with the mirrors and the seat, while he watches anxiously. She looks at him, exasperated.

"I drive you around all the time."

"In _your_ car."

"Is this one of your weird male things?"

"...yes."

If pushed, she would admit to a growing fondness for the DS. She had learnt to drive in a station wagon, is used to heaving large vehicles around. It had taken her a while to get used to riding in it, the smaller size, the lighter feel of the car. Driving it is a different thing, too. It's a semi-automatic, for a start, and she spends a few moments getting acquainted with the feel of the accelerator. (Beside her, the owner of the car twitches and grumbles, chuntering about the need for delicacy, power ratios. )

Jane has grown used to being driven by other people over time. He still prefers to drive himself, has gradually overcome Lisbon's resistance, insistence on always driving. But watching her behind the wheel of his precious car...makes him nervous on many levels. Nobody else has driven his baby. Not the practical family vehicle, this is _his_ car, always has been. Flinches through the downtown traffic; she's used to bullying her way through in her own wretched tank of a thing. At least he can put his hisses and winces down to the pain in his hand. He's almost relieved to pull up at the hospital.

Spares a moment to run her hand down the sleek lines of it as she closes the door. Nothing particularly practical about this car, on the face of it. Not something driven by a conformist. Quirky, catching the eye, none of the rugged utility of modern vehicles. But you can blow tyres, and it will still run flat out, a certain endurance to it, even when damaged. This is a car that you have to _drive_, you have to work at it. No power steering, but responsive under her hands, as she learns it. A lot more powerful than it looks, too. Rather too easy to swing the needle over. It does need a careful touch, delicate handling. But fun, if you're willing to take the chance with it.

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"It's not even a heroic injury." He complains.

"Like your usual punches to the face are heroic?"

They can banter, now, because it isn't serious. It's just a minor sprain, and needs strapping for a couple of days. He's been his usual self when confronted with a hospital, but luckily, it's a slow day, she uses her badge without compunction, and they turn him out before he has done more than be mildly caustic. And this time, he doesn't have the tearing, throat-clogging panic of blindness over him, and he can see the woman holding his other hand. (He had held onto her hand last time, left bruises, but they never mention that.)

"So, are you going to look after me?" Does his best to look pathetic. He is in quite genuine pain, if he's honest with himself. But he's also willing to exploit it, if it will get Lisbon to fuss over him. The look she gives him indicates that she knows this very well.

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Gets back to the office, blandly tells the team that she has left Jane with an ice-pack and sleeping off the pain-killers. Forensics and Ballistics are actually co-operating today, and she has a neat sheaf of papers in her hand when she walks into the interrogation room.

Cort leers at Lisbon, and debates whether to spit on the floor.

"Aww, did I break your boyfriend, sweet-cheeks? He don't look like much of a man to me."

(From behind the glass, Sam Bosco watches, frowns.)

"We're here to talk about Sonny Weisz. The assault charge can wait until later."

"Assault?" Blinks his little piggy eyes. "C'mon, you ain't serious?"

"I'm very serious. So?"

"So I really think you wanna get yourself a piece of real dick, dollface. You can't tell me that that pretty boy does it for you?"

Lisbon surveys her paperwork, leans back in her chair, and raises an eyebrow.

"My 'pretty boy', as you call him, is considerably smarter than you. He spotted where you had the guns stashed. Two M1911A1's and a DE44CA. All we need is for you to explain your motives. But I expect that he can do _that_ for me, too." Taps the paper. "Your...colleague, Mr Cyrus Miller has already confessed to taking a payment for, I quote, 'whacking the rat.'"

Cort starts to sweat. Cy would be the weak link, the chicken-shit.

"Could be anyone's guns..."

"With your fingerprints on the ammunition? He said the Desert Eagle would be yours." A pitying smile, droops her forefinger. "Compensating."

Cort cracks. Rigsby and Cho jam him back into his seat, and she leaves them to deal with him. Has no further interest in his profanity. His face had told her what she needed to know, when she'd mentioned the weapons. She's not really in the mood for Bosco. (Slight dissonance, their strides don't match.)

"What was that about?"

"Slam dunk case. They still had the murder weapons hidden on the premises." Shakes her head in disbelief. She doesn't know how Jane worked it out, but she hadn't doubted him...

"No, the assault charge. Did Mr Jane insult him?"

"No." She stops. "That guy in there made a break for it. Jane just didn't dodge fast enough."

Disgust.

"I knew it. He's not trained to be out in the field. He doesn't even carry a gun." Hitches the Glock on his own belt.

"He doesn't need to. He's got me." She glares.

"You left your team alone to bring in three suspects..."

"Hey! What the hell is this? I left three professionally trained agents to do their job whilst I escorted an injured colleague to hospital."

"And you couldn't delegate that?"

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Because he is _my_ responsibility. Part of my team."

"No other reason?"

He wouldn't dare.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on, Teresa. I've been here a couple of weeks, and the gossip couldn't be plainer. Hell, even that scumbag in there..."

"Stop. Right. Now." He does not want to take the conversation down this path. She will crucify him if he does.

He senses the precipice. Steps back. Her eyes scorch at him, and then she turns her back, walks away from him.

"Teresa..."

She doesn't turn. Upright and angry, just as strong and as beautiful as when she walked away from him before. He hadn't believed that she was serious, that she would leave him, that she had the strength and the conviction. Wonders how badly he has misread things this time, putting credence in gossip and innuendo. Of course, she's going to be furious with him. He has blundered in, and questioned her professionalism up and down the line. He has to rein himself in.

Sighs, glances into the bull-pen. At least the clown isn't sprawled on that couch. The more he's out of the building and out from underfoot, the better. More chance of a rapprochement with Teresa, a chance to cement a decent working relationship, perhaps try and find a little of the friendship they used to have before it all went sour, before they allowed their feelings to cloud their judgement.

Remembers her temper very well. Knows to leave her to cool down. He'll leave it an hour or so, then try and apologise. After all, he knows that Teresa usually works later hours than most. She'll still be here...

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Van Pelt, who had done herself a similar injury some months back, is all sympathy. She'd had a horrible few days, unable to drive and with the nearest team member to give her a lift to work being Jane himself.

_...Jane is rarely short of conversation. He's well-read, and he and Cho have wrangled their way through most of the Classics, and a fair spread of the Moderns, plus a brief sojourn into the less respectable hinterland of pulp sci-fi. With Rigsby, the conversation had taken a sharp turn for the culinary. _

"_...Squirrel? Seriously, man?"_

"_...best Kentucky burgoo I ever tasted..."_

_Of course, he and Lisbon can bicker about anything, or sit in comfortable silence. But he can see that Van Pelt is rather at a loss. They are very different people, opposing beliefs the least of it. She's determined to be polite to him – he didn't need to offer to drive her to work, after all, though she suspects he liked the idea of a captive audience to torment._

_Jane is secretly amused. Van Pelt puts the chair back with exactly the same huff with which Lisbon always adjusts it forward. She's a very pretty young woman, and she finds that a burden, wants to be taken seriously. Ambitious, very ambitious, determined to succeed. Seeks to emulate Lisbon, match that steely professionalism._

"_You're even scowling like she does." He says, makes her jump. _

_Different buttons to press, here, though. She's going to have to toughen up if she wants to match their lovely little Boss lady. A suspect will be able to get under her skin far too easily._

_Smiles cheerfully. It seems it is his positive duty to assist in the process..._

No, it had not been a comfortable few days. Useful, in hindsight, because after being trapped in a car with Jane at his irritating worst, nearly everything else comes as a light relief. But she does feel sorry for him – what can he do with one hand out of action?

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"Jane?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to see if I can still..."

"Oh!"

"...undo a bra one handed."

"What makes you think I'm that sort of girl?"

"I'm a man. We're always hopeful." Wicked grin against her mouth. "And you've been stealthily undoing my shirt buttons for the past few minutes..."

He won't be able to shave for a couple of days. It always makes him look rougher, naughtier, especially when he does his best 'bedroom eyes' at her, too. Though she's long since come to the conclusion that Patrick Jane, propped up on his elbows in her bed, and looking hopeful, is quite simply the sexiest thing she has ever seen, regardless, and that she is absolutely a lost cause, now.

"The doctor said you have to take it easy."

"I'll take it any way I can get it." Her lover grins up at her, both hands on her hips, the damaged and the undamaged. She bends to kiss him, her laughter soft and wicked as she moves, hears him groan happily.

When she'd told the office that she had left him sleeping, she had never specified where.


	15. Between The Kisses and The Wine

-I don't think Jane sorts out the female pronouns in his head sometimes, so this might take a bit of working out...-

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-credit: Ernest Dowson 'Cynara'-

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Between The Kisses And The Wine...

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For once, it's simply physical pain, his wrist, that keeps him awake, but he doesn't want to leave her. So he slides out to watch the late movie, plans to creep back in for an early cuddle.

Partway through, there is a little noise. She comes out of her room, blinks at him. Turns, and a minute later, comes back out with the quilt. Climbs onto the couch beside him, wriggles under his arm, and snuggles down. His eyelids prickle, even as he smiles – he's not even sure of how awake she is, sleepy little dormouse of a woman.

If certain people ever found out how much time he spends here, it could look very dark for her. He tries to be careful, but he can no more keep away from her than he can stop breathing.

The sheer terror in him, sometimes. He doesn't need to hide from her, she sees him as he is, and she loves him. Not unconditionally, more dangerous and more complicated that that, she knows him, the darkness in him, and she will fight to make him be better than he is.

So very different, smooth dark hair beneath his fingers, ivory skin, the feel and smell of her...

He had been exciting and different, a charming bad boy who had won his princess. Life had never denied her anything, why shouldn't she have him? Days when he had felt like a performing pet, only his quick mind and smart mouth saving him from humiliation. Days when only her hand on his forearm kept him from exploding. (One thing, a strange echo, that both women put two fingers on his arm, light touch that says 'please'.) Quiet strength in her, a different strength to Lisbon, one born from security, not adversity.

...Lisbon would have come and sat on that busted couch, drunk beer from a bottle. She understood what it was like to live in a world where the weekend just meant different working hours. He wouldn't have been ashamed to show her where he lived, and she wouldn't have been charmed by the novelty of poverty.

That thought flays across raw nerves. Guilt in him. He does her memory a disservice. She would have come with him, would have met the guys. But he would have been ashamed, and they would have been uncomfortable. She was Money.

He had asked her why, one day, and she had looked at him, simply said – because. My world is full of men who went to the right college, and have proper manners, know which damn fork to use. And none of them make me laugh like you do. His shrug. I'm no prince. Her smile. You're my court jester, then.

All he knows. A lifetime of trickery, lies, manipulation, playing to an audience. And...he likes the applause. He's acknowledged, seen. He's good at it. Really good. Always has been.

And what else is he to do? Become a patron of the arts? Live on his wife's money, while her family despise him?

They had had a huge fight, he remembers. Her father paying for the wedding, he could deal with. But the down payment on the house, the implication that he could not provide for his family...She had not understood the rage in him, then. His pride, his ego.

She had wanted him to give up the stage. Spend more time with them. After all, he didn't need to work if he didn't want to. Her family had enough money that she had never had to. She could spend her time supporting artists, dancers, musicians...magicians.

But...her father had called him 'that gold-digging little shit.' Oh, not to her, and it wasn't something he'd been meant to hear. He'd been well-aware that he wasn't what they ever wanted to see in their home – people like him were the ones who did the catering and cleaned the pool. The 'help'. Not the sort you had sitting at the table.

She didn't mind the stage shows, the card tricks, the hypnotism. She had disliked the parade of the sad, the lost, the hopelessly hopeful who looked upon him as their salvation. Not in our house, Patrick. The job does not come home with you any more. But it paid. And gradually, that started to become the show. Cameras, the first cameras in the background of the theatre. Then the theatre became a studio...

Do you have to do this? Yes. What else is there? It's false hope, but it's hope. And it pays the bills. And this is me, not all of me, but enough. People knew his face, his name.

Because it had all been a game, a show, something that he could leave behind, that did not touch his happy family. Until it followed him home.

Ego. Pride. Vanity. All of it cut away from him.

Blind and deaf, torn from within until he can't breathe. As near to destruction as he has ever been, that place that still lurks inside him, white walls and silence...

All that he fears. A small, blank room confining a small, blank man.

Victim.

He won't be that. Won't ever be that again.

It's a half-life at best, now, on the bad days. Going through the motions, there are days when the parade of violence, greed and stupidity hammer too hard. (But now there is the solace of a pair of arms. Transient, and it doesn't alter the horror, but they can pretend that it makes it a little better, and maybe in some small personal way, it does.)

But on the good days...Oh, on the good days, he feels alive again. Just the touch of her warm lips up under his jaw is enough. Such small things – making dinner together. Fragile little life-raft, small scenes of normality strung together over the abyss.

He cares little for other eyes upon them, the censure of the workplace. That does not touch him, he does not worry about that. His concern is...other. Red John has seen her. She is known, now.

He has to be here. Needs her, wants her. Needs to protect her.

Shocked up from sleep, clawing out of the fear and the dark and the world turned to blood and blades, he has clung to her, held her, and he means every word he says to her, that wild mix of fear and devotion. He has killed for her, would kill again to keep her safe. She's the only thing that grounds him, the only thing that matters. He's seen over the edge, now, knows where he could go without her to hold him back.

Knows that he will have to go there again, regardless, in spite of, because of, her.

It's his right to avenge his dead, to protect his woman. He knows that it is a primitive, dark, angry thought that has no place in the modern world. But he has never been very good at fitting in, however hard he tries...

...Waking in the early grey light, neck stiff and the warm weight still across his knees. He hates to wake her, but he can't carry her back to their bed. Dazed green eyes, and she stumbles ahead of him, fingers laced with his. She burrows into him, grumbles sleepily about the cold mattress, nonsense syllables fading.

Their bed. He realizes his own thought. Wonder and terror in him. Holds her in his arms, and does not know if what he offers up is a vow or a prayer or simple defiance.

Mine. Always.


	16. Love, And All The Reasons Why

-some random scenes full of 'shippy goodness-

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Love, And All The Reasons Why...

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She's sitting on her couch, watching tv, but not really taking it in, quite comfortable and relaxed. The heavy weight across her knees shifts slightly. He's stretched out the length of the couch, which puts him across her lap, where one hand can stroke his hair. She knows she should throw him out, but he looks so peaceful, deceptively innocent. Her hand stills, and he opens a reproachful eye.

"Like it. Don't stop."

She sighs, smiles and rakes her fingers lightly through his curls. He makes a ridiculous sound, a kind of grunting purr, and settles himself like a happy cat.

"You are a smug devil, aren't you?"

His mouth curls, that wicked joyous smile. He has a lot of different smiles, but this one is hers.

The year turning, Summer shading into Fall. Three months, and somehow, there is a routine to their lives now. They don't flaunt their relationship, but they don't hide away. Still take separate cars to work, but they arrive, leave within minutes of each other. She's fairly sure that someone has probably seen them going about their lives...

...One Tuesday, after yoga, she finds that in the few moments she has been away getting a drink, her lift home has morphed from a tall redhead to a grinning blond.

Hair still damp from the shower, sleeves rolled up, jacket slung over one shoulder. He does look rather good. She's shamefully aware that she's enjoying the envious glances, and that he's aware of them, too. Submits to a reasonably sedate kiss.

"Did you terrorize Van Pelt into leaving?"

"Me?" Wide-eyed innocence doesn't work on him. "I didn't. She took one look at me and went all flustered. She's been admiring my manly charms off that balcony again."

His eyebrows rise even further when she gives a dirty laugh.

"Well, if you will parade around like that..."

"I was _swimming_. Honestly, woman." Pause. "So...?"

"Yes, your charms are very...manly."

Or, as one of the women in the yoga class had put it, 'ohdeargodthat'shot.' But she doesn't think his ego needs that much feeding.

Has to ask, though.

"What exactly did you say to Van Pelt?"

"Oh," he grins aggravatingly, "I assured her that it was a purely platonic offer of a lift. And that I would not be attempting anything of an immodest nature upon your person. Because that would be against the rules."

She narrows her eyes at him. That was probably a direct quote, as well. They'll just have to hope that Van Pelt still retains some of her charming naivety. Or at least a strong enough sense of self-preservation not to speculate.

Other working relationships are still...problematic.

...One evening, instead of pizza, they are sitting around with boxes of Chinese take-out, (the team still don't know why Lisbon thumps Jane for offering her Singapore noodles) and having a 'Weirdest Thing You Ever Ate' conversation. Van Pelt, who grew up in a town where pasta was exotic, and who had never even used chopsticks until she was in College, listens with a fascinated horror. Rigsby, despite the quantities he eats, prefers to recognise what he is putting in his mouth, and isn't even in the running. Lisbon has been mildly adventurous in San Francisco's Chinatown, Cho has a whole background of family occasions to draw on, and Jane (of course) has eaten some really strange things.

Bosco picks an inopportune moment to arrive. It's the stark surprise, and the edge of something else, on Bosco's face, that makes them realise that the sight of Lisbon feeding Jane a garlic prawn to shut him up might be considered a little odd. And the pause is a fraction too long before Lisbon offers him a seat. Which is declined.

Everybody there is absolutely aware of the fact that Jane would like nothing better than to put his chopsticks up Bosco's nose, and that the other man would be more than happy to return the favour.

It's always the small, normal moments that really take her by surprise. She still finds it slightly surreal to have him amble round with her when she's getting groceries – Jane and domesticity don't seem to match. Though he's dreadfully opinionated about his breakfast cereal. They are both eating better; cooking for two seems easier, somehow.

There was the first night he had stayed over, and they didn't have sex, just fell asleep wrapped together...

...Jane eyes the baggy cotton pj's.

"You look about fifteen in those things, woman. I feel like a pervert."

"I'm tired."

He wraps his arms round her.

"mmm. You feel nice and warm, though." She feels the rumble of his laugh under her ear. "The romance has gone, huh? Comfy pj's, and a microwave meal in front of the tv."

"I've never given you a microwave meal." Raises her face in indignation, realizes too late that that was his intention, as he steals a kiss.

"Let me stay?"

She bites her lip. Worry in her eyes.

"I'm tired, Jane. Really."

"Hey," Soft kiss on her nose. "I'm quite capable of behaving myself."

"That will be a first."

But she has grown used to the warm weight of his arm, the sound (not quite snoring) of sleeping male. Gives in to those hopeful eyes, wheedling kisses. And he does behave himself. Just wants to be with her...

He doesn't spend every night at her place. There are nights that she pushes him out, when she needs her sleep, knows that she absolutely has to get up early for work. Mornings are hard enough, without the added temptation nuzzling at her neck. (Because she could become far too used to waking up to the sight of him, could start to want more.)

She wouldn't have pegged him as a cuddler. But behind closed doors, he wraps himself around her whenever he can, protective and possessive. Two hours lost in nothing more than gentle kisses, soft laughter and little spurts of conversation about nothing at all...

..."I had a job washing dishes in Pasadena for a while."

"Hence the Tex-Mex Spanish?"

"...Yes."

Lisbon looks hard at him from the corner of her eye.

"What was her name?"

"Lisbon, you wrong me. The nightwatchman used to share his lunch with me."

She gives him a more direct look, waits.

"His grand-daughter, Ana." He confesses, slightly shame-faced grin. "Am I to have no secrets from you?"

"I imagine that you had girls in every state." she retorts. He protests.

"Girls liked me."

"I'm trying to imagine you at age twenty. To see if I would have liked you."

"Well, you were seventeen...Hmmm...Lisbon, did you go to a Catholic High School? I'd have liked you." Leers at her, and she slaps at him, laughing.

"You were a blond bad boy...wearing?"

"...faded jeans, cowboy boots, ripped t-shirt..."

"....mmmm."

He grins at her.

"So you would have liked me, then?"

"I would have had a huge crush on you." Grins back. "But I'd have still turned you down for John Cusack."

"Damn." …

There's the day a man in the cafeteria refers to Lisbon as 'the poison dwarf', turns round to find Jane behind him, and nearly comes to bits on the spot.

Tacit acceptance in the CBI. If you wanted to borrow Jane, you had to ask Lisbon. They came as a package deal. If you sent him to do something crazy, she would be there to talk him down afterwards. And if Lisbon was in a high bitch of a mood, you sent Jane in to calm her down. He was resigned to being a target.

...The sound of Lisbon snarling down the phone is enough to make most people back away. When she is in this sort of mood, only a very brave man would venture into her office. A very brave man bearing a couple of Aleve that he's scored off Van Pelt.

"The consumption of toffee-pecan muffins increased two days ago." He lifts a shoulder. She sighs; she's dating a man who probably knows her cycle better than she does. It would be embarrassing, but for the fact that he has also brought her another of the said muffins...

She's so tough and in control when she works - and then she likes to dance around the kitchen to the radio, often just in one of his shirts, which drives him crazy.

...It is possible to make Lisbon blush. Jane can be extremely filthy when he has a mind to be, and what he is murmuring in her ear would make anyone blush. Especially since she knows that he is capable of it, too.

Of course, it's a two-way street.

"Later." One word, breathed lightly into his ear.

All it takes. Sashays back to her office, leaving him standing, eyes wide and totally incapable of going anywhere for a while...

She loves the effect she has on him, all that smug self-control of his broken by a little smile, one crooked finger. He knows that he is whipped, owned, at her mercy. Can't, daren't, ask for more.

...She never paints her toenails, now. But he notices. Finds a pale rose colour. Convinces her that it will be good therapy for him. He brings dedicated concentration to the task, gentle hands, face drawn into a sweet frown, total absorption. Butterfly kisses up her instep and ankle...She finishes the rest of her toes herself, the next morning. Otherwise, she'll be walking round with half-painted feet for weeks...

There are still days when he scares her. Days when he isn't a jigsaw, but a kaleidoscope, bright and broken pieces shifting in ever-moving patterns, dazzling the eyes, all edges and chaos, mirror shards echoing back what the world wants to see. When the rage comes near the surface, and she has to rein him in, try and control the energy before it consumes both of them. There have been times when they have both teetered on the edge, judgement calls a little off, and she has seen the worry in Minelli. Understands his concern herself, because she feels her judgement eroded by the need to take the pain from Jane's eyes, to give him whatever he needs to make the world better, and she has to fight that, because what he wants is not what he can have, in a sane and daylight world. And she is selfish, does dare to dream of a future.

..She has to go to a three-day residential conference.

"Don't I count as essential work equipment?" he jokes.

"I doubt you'd fit in the suitcase."

And every night she is away, she finds that she is now one of those people who step out of the bar to have a soft-voiced conversation on their cell with someone...

He sleeps a little better now, wraps himself around her, holds her sleeping warmth, talisman against the night. (Faithful guard dog)

...Driving back from a crime scene, and they hit the rush hour.

"Alright, you can say it."

"We should have taken my car." She lifts the hot hair off the back of her neck. "How did people survive before air con?"

"Opened a window." He has to admit that that doesn't help much. Stuck in traffic, the air is unmoving, warm and gritty. He's long discarded his jacket, and now he shrugs out of his vest. She grins at him, face alight with mischief.

"Am I going to have to arrest you for public indecency, Mr Jane?"

"If the cells are cool, I'm not sure I'd care." He rolls his sleeves, undoes a few buttons. Then he smirks. "Your turn, Agent Lisbon."

"What?"

"Strip poker. Without the cards."

"Don't be filthy. Besides, unless you cheat, I always kick your butt at poker."

"I let you."

"Hah." Gathering her hair into a messy pony-tail. Jane grumbles softly to himself. The back of her neck is so tempting. There's that place just under her hairline that he likes to nuzzle in the mornings...She gives him a look sideways, her half-grin that means he's been busted. Looks through her lashes at him.

"That doesn't do anything to keep me cool." he complains.

"Is that all you think about?"

"Sometimes I think about food." He grins. "I'm getting in touch with my Inner Rigsby. You do know that Cho and Rigsby like to do the 'Royale with Cheese' routine when they get stuck in the car, don't you?"

"I always think of them as more Jake and Elwood."

"Or Bert and Ernie."

She laughs.

"You are nasty."

"True." He undoes another button. "I really should get a bike."

"I am not colluding with your mid-life crisis."

"Oh, come on. Cruising down the Cabrillo Highway? Not even a little tempted?"

She rolls her eyes. But she remembers the conversation, and later that evening...

"If you ever do get a bike, you think I should wear these?"

Jane looks up. And his brain shuts down. Lisbon in leather trousers. Just the leather trousers, looking saucily back over her shoulder at him. He had thought he was too old, too cynical to be turned into a horny, babbling idiot.

He isn't.

He has years of bleak loneliness to make up for, his body alive to the world again. Wants every moment to count.

He has no real place to live. He has wondered about finding himself something more permanent in Sacramento, surprises himself, that dislocation in him that perhaps now he thinks about a future. (And all the reasons that he cannot.) Something in him still holds him back from that last final step. There are things left undone, things that must be done. He wants a life, a future, a world that does not contain fear. And he wants a life with her.

So he keeps his room at the hotel, though he spends less and less time there. Thursday night is still poker night, and one night, when he wanders down, he stops, honestly surprised. Petite dark-haired woman in his chair. These guys can smell cops. But Chavez is handing her a beer, clinks the bottle with her, jerks his head.

"You keep your lady waiting, brujo."

She looks up, smiles a little self-consciously.

"Hi. Your friends said I could wait for you..."

"So you thought you'd hustle them? Lisbon, I'm ashamed of you."

Merv gives a deep bark of rare laughter.

"Your chickie plays hard, man."

Jane is seriously entertained at the idea of Lisbon as anybody's 'chickie'. But the woman has a respectable pile of matches in front of her.

He's not sure why she's here. Neither is she, completely. It's been a wretched case, a long and tiring day. Maybe she just wanted to see how he was, still worried by the shadows under his eyes. He begins to smile.

"So, you think you can keep those matches?"

"Bring it on."

Beer and chips, a tinny radio playing something soft from over the border. And Lisbon, hiding her tells, but still translucent to a man who knows every little detail of her face. She's nervous about being here, cross with herself for it...

...Making out like teenagers in the shadows of the wall by the car lot. Not what he ever expected, but he's not complaining. She actually giggles, and he loves that noise, the fact that two hands have made their way up under his shirt, that he has his own hands full, warm skin.

He groans softly.

"So I'm your booty call, am I?"

"Well, yes." She takes another long deep kiss.

"Should hope so." Pulls her against him, insistent. "What if I don't want to let you go?"

"I'll cuff you to the gate."

"Kinky." He sighs, rests his chin on top of her head. "Oh, you are evil."

"I didn't mean to torment you. You're just too damn sexy for your own good."

How the hell is he ever supposed to sleep now?

"Stay with me." Kisses her, deep,urgent kisses with all his need, his passion in them. "Stay here with me, now."

Hotel rooms, motel rooms...she dislikes them. A visceral thing, mind-body memory, shame, betrayal, early morning departures and avoiding eyes at breakfast.

"This is nothing remotely similar." His voice is quiet, savage. "Hell, woman, which bit of 'I love you' don't you understand?"

A little bit of him dies inside when she shuts him out like that. He has to use every weapon he has to hold her. But he cannot let her go, his only anchor, the only good thing in his world.

"I don't want to sneak around, pretend that I don't love you." Words spill out of him. "If I had a home to take you to...I would let the whole damn world know how much you mean to me...but it's dangerous. I'm dangerous."

"It's too late to worry about that." Kisses him hard. "It's always been too late."

This isn't some anonymous hotel room, crowded with the ghosts of guilt and reproach. This is Patrick, wanting her to stay with him, wanting her.

No more words. They cling to each other and who needs who the most is lost. So many lines crossed. She lets sensation blot out the worry, the fear, returns his kisses with her own hunger. How can this be so wrong, when he feels so wonderful?

She still leaves early, drives home in the dawn, but she leaves with reluctance and a lighter heart.

Dares to wonder if maybe some day, there will be a time when they won't have to leave each other in the mornings...

...She looks down at him, tweaks his nose gently.

"I'm going to bed now."

He looks up, hopeful.

"Me, too?"

He's never officially moved in. It's simply that he spends more time in her bed than he does in the one he has at the hotel. That it seems ridiculous to go all the way across town when he can keep a couple of shirts at her place. That he has his own side of the bed, a toothbrush above the basin, his own shampoo and shower gel. That she has borrowed his razors, wears one of his shirts to sleep in some nights, has grown accustomed to having someone wash her back. To having her coffee just as she likes it first thing in the morning. To a pair of wicked sea-coloured eyes, unruly blond curls and a naughty smile.

And she knows that she has lost the war.


	17. Red Kiss

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Red Kiss

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The bar is hip, fashionable, the feel of a good night in the air. A hot pre-club venue, this is a place to be seen. Woman walking up to the door doesn't normally frequent places like this, but the doorman lets her in without anything more than an admiring glance. Not very tall, but she makes every inch count. There's at least three guys in the line already craning to look after her.

She sits at the end of the bar, smooths down the rather short dress she's wearing. Knows that the colour does good things for her, and that she probably won't have to wait long before some man wants to buy her a drink. It doesn't take her any time to collect the attention of one of the barmen either. The bar staff here wear a uniform, black pants and shirt, and the owner can obviously afford to be picky, employ them for looks too. This one is a particularly prime specimen. Orders something with a rude name, and makes it sound even more suggestive when she does so. He grins as he mixes it.

"Looking for Mr Goodbar, are we? I don't think your boyfriend would approve."

"Oh, what he doesn't know won't hurt him." Takes a sip of her drink, smiles flirtily at him. He narrows his eyes slightly. _You just wait, woman..._

"You volunteered for this assignment." she reminds him.

"Only because Rigsby and Cho wouldn't know a Missouri Mule if it kicked them."

00000000000

...Joint operations always have an element of friction to them. The SCU don't normally deal with drug busts, but at least three OD's have been traced back to one particular nightspot, and the sad fact is, that one of the kids has a rich daddy...

The DEA contact, Agent Chalker, is the sort of woman who makes Lisbon feel like she just stepped off the boat at Ellis Island. (And short.) Even makes Van Pelt's eyes narrow a little. A cool, blonde goddess, clipped authority in a warm voice that makes the men straighten up and preen.

"...We know where the merchandise is coming in from, but we can't catch anyone passing it." Photographs on the table. "This bar has been fingered as the drop zone, we need eyes inside. Has anyone here got any bartending experience?"

Rigsby and Cho both shake their heads. Van Pelt shrugs, says tentatively,

"I did a little waitressing back in college..."

A cough makes them look round. A hand is waving over the end of the couch. Lisbon regards it without surprise. Minelli regards it with deep disfavour. Agent Chalker blinks, as the owner of the hand unfolds himself, gives her his most charming smile.

Lisbon watches the iceberg melt a little. Jane can have that effect. Freezes up again when Lisbon insists on being on the inside, too.

"Watching brief." Lisbon's voice is firm. "It's how we work."

"Doesn't like to let me out of her sight." Jane confides. "Thinks I'll only get myself into trouble."

"And am I right?" She demands.

"Well, yes." He grins widely. "No chickens on this one, I promise."

Chalker looks from one to the other, looks at Minelli. He shakes his head.

"Do not ask."

00000000000

This place is considerably more upmarket than some of the venues he's worked, but this is a world he used to know very well, clubs and bars. Lock-ins, illicit poker games. Empty-eyed girls faking it round a pole, mix of languages, and people who could be gone next morning, and no questions asked. Finishing up a shift behind the bar, and then taking to the small stage for a late show, card tricks and mind-reading. On the road, he'd wondered about heading to Vegas, once, but he'd been tired of the desert by then, wanted to see the ocean.

Driving through the night, parking up, and not the first time he's slept in the back of the Chevy. Wakes up early, and there's the Pacific Ocean before him. First time he's seen it with his own eyes. There had been something clean and peaceful about the vastness of it. Spends the day on the beach, just watching, and in the evening, finds a fire, gets talking to the guys around it, and finds a floor to sleep on, house full of surfers. They had all done this sort of job, casual cash in hand. It's what he knows, people looking for something to fill their lives, whether it be drink or drugs, faith or hope or simply sex. Fashions may have changed, but the people haven't, still doing the dance of need and desire.

The darkness is always ready to claim him back. He feels slightly adrift - his suit is part of his persona, reminds him who he is, how he should react to the world, how the world reacts to him. In the anonymous uniform of barwork, it's a different place. He's taken off his wedding band, too, and he's already been hit on several times...Exasperated snarl from the head bartender to stop chatting up the looker, and serve some other customers. Doesn't stop him sidling back at the first opportunity.

"So...flirt with me some more."

"Oh?" Fidgets with her earring, the tiny pick-up mic. _Remember the listeners, Jane._

"C'mon, it's good cover." Leans on the bar, his sexiest smile. "Pretend you've just met me for the first time..."

"Hmm." Closes her eyes, opens them, slow cat-blink. "I'd see...trouble. Some blond player who looks nearly as good as he thinks he does."

He does look extremely good in black. (Has to admit that she thinks he looks good in pretty much anything.) But he's certainly different when he's not wearing his suit – no longer gives the impression of being a soft office type, almost overdressed and slightly wimpy. As she knows, there are some serious muscles under that shirt, and some very dark edges to his charm. Tonight he looks dangerous. And definitely hot.

"You can't keep sliding down here, it will look suspicious."

"No, it won't. I have to keep coming back to check that this hot little number hasn't gone off with some other guy. She seems like she might be up for a little fun. I have high hopes for the end of my shift..."

Her expression says 'smug bastard'. His expression says 'but you love me.'

He's certainly a hit with the customers, chatting and flirting. A natural showman, in his element. Watches with cross amusement as one of the other servers pinches his ass in passing, his naughty smirk back at her.

She's given a few guys the brush-off already. Does allow one to buy her a drink. He's the dark and rugged type she used to go for, after all. Bartender keeps the scowl off his face as she accepts it.

"He's half your age..."

"Good cover." She says, airily. "Do I look like the kind of woman who is going to sit here on my own all night?"

"No." His expression is salacious. "Not in that dress."

It isn't so much the dress he finds distracting, as the amount of Lisbon on display. It isn't even a particularly indecent dress, despite the shortness of the skirt and the cut of the top. It's quite simply that he knows exactly what that creamy skin feels like, smells like, tastes like. And he really, really wants this bastard they are waiting for to show up soon, so that he can take her away from here, stop other guys leering at her, and leer at her himself.

Wicked little pixie-woman gives him a dirty grin, and continues to flirt with some poor sap who can't believe his luck.

0000000000

Their dealer turns up just before midnight. His sleight of hand, while good, isn't quite good enough to escape the eye of someone who used to do that sort of thing for a living. Jane, who has known from the outset of the evening how they were passing the stuff, now has who. And it takes less than half an hour to spot the rest of the network.

The bar is dark and heaving, too noisy, so Jane pulls Lisbon through the service door, into the relative quiet. His breath, warm on her ear, as he delivers his report.

"...Man you're looking for is wearing a long-cut linen jacket, charcoal grey, sitting at the far end of the bar..."

Door opens, and voices.

"...saw that nosy new guy. He's got no call to be back here..."

"If he's a narc, we'll beat it out of him..."

They look at each other. Only one other reason that two people would be here.

Lisbon backs into the wall, the heat of Jane's mouth, his hands hard upon her body. Sweet taste of her tongue, and she digs her nails into his shoulders, presses herself against him. He groans, hitches her leg around him, and his hand slides up her thigh. She can't believe he would dare...but that's another pair of pantyhose gone to hell. Her own fingers find his belt...

"The hell..."

They look exactly like a couple caught in an illicit encounter. Nothing feigned about the dazed guilt on their faces, flush of her skin.

Jane whines at them.

"Ah, hey, I live in some crappy hotel downtown. She was gonna sober up before I got her there..." The tone is a work of art. Lisbon allows herself to giggle. There's nothing fake about his frustration, or the state he's in, either. He catches up her straying hand. "Lemme talk to the nice men, baby...c'mon, man, I'm on my break..."

"Not any more you're not." Man jerks a thumb. "Dump her in a cab, and get back to fucking work..."

Jane, stuffing his shirt back into his pants, grumbling.

"Playtime's over, kitten..."

She pouts, stumbles into him.

"Aww...and we were just getting warmed up...am I going to have to go home all by myself?"

"Seems that way, sweetheart." She's enjoying herself far too much. He's going to make her pay for this. Definitely does not need to grab her _there_ as they stumble out into the bar. Where they pass Agent Chalker and her task force on their way in to put an end to quite a few people's fun.

"Looks like it's Unhappy Hour..." Lisbon says, hastily removing a lecherous hand. (His, not hers.)

Jane, at that moment, quite definitely agrees with that statement.

0000000000

"That was a very...convincing performance back there." Chalker murmurs to Lisbon.

"Thank you." Lisbon's tone is beyond dry.

The two women stare at each other a beat. But Lisbon can beat Jane at poker (most of the time).

Jane is demonstrating how the double-coaster pass works to one of the agents.

"How the hell do you do that?"

"What can I say? I have talented hands." Looks across with a truly wicked smile. "Can we finish this up tomorrow? Only I think my handler wants to debrief me."

She's going to kill him. She is going to take him home and kill him. Him _and_ his talented hands.

Agent Chalker watches them leave, the small woman torn between anger and amusement, the man in black strolling along behind her. He's taken four hours to wrap up two months of work for them, and he's made it look easy.

"We could really use someone with his skills in the unit, ma'am."

The very faintest smile curves the corner of Agent Chalker's mouth, and she gives a little sigh. (She's been the one on the other end of that earpiece all evening, after all.)

"We'd be wasting our time asking..."

Round the corner, and Lisbon suddenly finds herself pinned back against the wall again.

"Cab. Home. Now." Jane growls. "or I'm dragging you into that alley."

He doesn't look safe or civilized, or in any mood to be reasonable. She can't stop her filthy grin, wonders if they will even make it to the bedroom tonight. She rather doubts it.

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Red Kiss – 1 measure of dry vermouth, ½ measure of gin, ½ measure of cherry brandy, mixed over ice, served straight up and garnished with a cherry and lemon peel


	18. I Never Promised You a Rosegarden I

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I Never Promised You a Rose-Garden.... (I)

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Jane doesn't share. He's not a team player. He has vast reserves of self-confidence and self-belief, because who else has he ever had to rely on?

He's been alone for much of his life. A haphazard upbringing, erratic education and troubled teens. Carnival circuits and boarding houses and always running. A pattern that he kept, when he took to the road, surviving on his wits and an esoteric skillset that only just kept him out of a criminal lifestyle, moving onwards, until the Pacific Ocean stopped him. A scant half-dozen years of happiness, maybe, taken brutally from him, and an equal time spent climbing out of the pit of pain that had taken him into.

He doesn't like schools, or churches, or courthouses, or hospitals. Hates to be confined, at anyone's mercy. Doesn't sleep well, always aware of his surroundings. Too many bus-stations, lonely pull-outs. There are few places, few times, that he truly relaxes, few people that he trusts. There has been very little security in his life.

He understands what his life has done to him, but he sees no need to try and explain it to others. What good will that do? It has happened, and he lives with it. No amount of talking can give him a happy, secure upbringing with two loving parents, a home, friends. It can't bring anyone back, turn back time and allow him to erase his mistakes, take a different path.

Don't talk to cops. One of the first lessons. Almost pathological secrecy. A lifetime of lies and loneliness. And now what little trust and happiness he has in his life are invested in a cop. A small, bossy cop, who is presently singing along (not quite in tune) to the radio, as she unpacks groceries. He leans around the doorway. Wearing her smart suit, he gets to admire her legs.

"How did your day in court go?"

"So-so. I think the jury will nail him." Hands him a couple of cartons, indicates a high shelf. "I ran into Carmen – she says 'hi', and could you please stop sending them, I quote, 'such weird shit.'"

_..."You know they actually have a name for it in the chambers?" Carmen says. "Every time the paperwork arrives, someone will ask if the Jane Curse has struck again."_

"_You should get little stickers to warn people..." Trails off._

"_Purple ones. Two means that it's one of his **really** strange ones." Carmen's grin becomes positively filthy. "So, does he like to play games behind closed doors, too?"_

_She'd still been twitching with horrified embarrassment when she got back to the office..._

"Meh. Has to be more exciting than corporate law..." Poking through the bag. "Did you get any more OJ?"

She watches him putting things in the 'fridge, and grins. Watching him being domestic is by far the weirdest thing she can ever think of.

The phone rings, land-line, not her cell.

"It's our day off tomorrow." Jane grumbles, already getting pouty.

She feels her eyebrows rise, tries not to let her heart do the same. He never uses language carelessly, and she has begun to notice a few more of those collectives creeping in. Tries not to put too much store in it.

The caller is her sister-in-law, Sam, asking if she's coming to them for Thanksgiving this year.

Thanksgiving. She's not looking forward to it. It isn't that Niall and Sam don't have a lovely family or wonderful friends. In fact, they throw themselves into festive things whole-heartedly, parties and family meals and jolly social gatherings. Which is a big part of the problem. The year before last, they had tried to set her up with a school-teacher cousin of Sam's. A major factor in last year's decision to stay in with ice-cream and Cary Grant.

"_...so, Sean said you've met someone? Are we ever going to get to meet him?"_

A hand swoops in, the phone out of her grasp before she has a chance to react.

"Samantha? Hi, I'm Patrick...I'd be delighted to meet the rest of Teresa's family."

In the process of thumping him, she stops, hands on his chest. Jane meets her eyes, his expression wary, a little hopeful, decidedly nervous. He's actually serious, she realizes.

Taking him to a family event. That's a huge step.

It's years since she had someone to bring to anything. Oh, she's dated, but there had been no-one serious. (And there was...well. Holidays then had been horrible, fraught with guilt and tension.)

Grabs the phone back, tries to sort her scrambled thoughts, field Sam's happy enthusiasm. But two arms go round her waist, a chin on her shoulder, and between the voice in one ear, and the lips under the other, she finds herself weakly agreeing.

Puts the handset down, and there is a pause.

"Jane...Patrick. Do you have any idea what you've just done?"

She's not quite sure how to phrase it. The eternal singleton is going to be turning up with a man, and there is going to be scrutiny beyond belief.

There are going to be assumptions made, big assumptions. This is a public 'we are a couple' thing. This is taking him to meet her sister-in-law. Who is probably hunting out bridal magazines at this very moment. She groans softly.

"Are you ashamed of me?"

"What? No." Her head whips round. "Why would I be?"

"You've obviously not told your family about me." He's a little hurt.

"Because..." He'll know within five minutes of being there, she might as well get the embarrassment out of the way now, "they have been trying to set me up with guys for years. I rather wanted to keep my private life with you private."

"Oh." Pause. Different tone. "Oh."

It's no more than he should have expected. When he'd first met her, the detached part of his mind that catalogued everyone had wondered why she was single. Even in his numb state, he had been aware that she was attractive. Weak little flame that had roared up into an inferno.

"Lisbon...Teresa." Sober, a little quiet. "I want to do this. For...us."

He's not quite sure what he was really thinking when he'd taken the phone, invited himself in. Except that five days without Lisbon seems like a horribly empty thing, and he'll endure dogs and small children and rampant curiosity to be with her.

His face, usual wide grin absent, just a small hopeful half-smile, eyes a little tense. She bites her lip, finds a smile of her own, as she cups his face in one hand, kisses him.

"You know they live in mountain country?"

"Well, I might have known your family would head to Boulder."

"Oh, you're Vegas all the way, aren't you?"

"What terribly low-brow taste we both have." His mouth twitches. "It's a long time since I visited Vegas. I got thrown out of a casino."

"Is there anywhere you haven't been thrown out of?"

"SeaWorld." He says, promptly. "But give it time."

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"I know you're still awake." she says softly.

"How?" His mouth curves, but he doesn't open his eyes.

"Your face changes." Runs her finger down his nose, his lips. He catches at the tip of it, soft kiss.

"Is that good or bad?" Eye half-opens.

"Different. You look peaceful when you sleep, and that so isn't you."

"You watch me sleeping?"

"Yes." She admits. "Are you really serious about meeting my family?"

He props up on an elbow.

"I'm really serious. Lisbon, I want to spend time with you."

"That's going to get confusing. There will be a few Lisbons there."

Her family call her Tree. (Or sometimes 'T-bone', but that's just Sean at his most annoying.) She's never been a Terri. Or a Tess. Tee or Tez to friends, sometimes. So many variations on 'mother' Teresa, 'saint' Teresa, jokes that got old fast. Most people call her Lisbon. He calls her Lisbon, though he can make it sound somehow dirty when he does. Calls her woman, and he's the only one who could get away with it. Calls her sweetheart, when nobody else hears him.

"Tree." Cautious, tries it out, strange on his tongue. "I think you'll always be Lisbon to me. _My _Lisbon." Warm hands, gently possessive.

He's always been Patrick. Never Pat or Ricky, diminutives never stuck. (Except Trick - a name from the last truly carefree period of his life.) All three syllables, surname included, thundered out far too many times during his patchy education, uttered to applause later on. _Mr_ Jane, to the people he paid. Mostly, now, he's just Jane.

"Patrick..." Soft voice, her nose in the angle of his jaw. "No, still _my_ Jane..."

"Nobody else wants me."

"Good." Tiny kisses, creeping up his neck...

Later, warmly entwined, hovering on the edge of sleep, her head tucked beneath his chin, they murmur other names to each other, soft little love-names.

In his craziest moments, fleeting fragile hopes between the dreaming and the dawn... he dares to wonder, sometimes.

If you asked him if he was married, he would hesitate, because now the answer lies somewhere between 'not any more', and 'not quite'...

If you asked him if he loved Lisbon, there would be no hesitation in him. He does.

If you asked him if he was scared, there would be no hesitation there, either. He's terrified.


	19. I Never Promised You a RoseGarden II

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I Never Promised You a Rose-Garden (II)

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She likes the fact that she can come home, choose to have a long, luxurious bubble-bath and an equally long, luxurious evening of making love, slow and sensuous. Or that some evenings, she can march in through her front door, and grab him by the shirt-front, tow him to bed for quick, hot sex. (One or two occasions when they haven't even made it to the bed.)

He maintains that he's a healthier way to wake up than coffee, too, though she's not giving up the java just yet.

But she really likes the days when she can come home from work, kick off her shoes, and they will just be together, cooking dinner, watching tv. Their rare days off, doing nothing more outrageous than going for a walk or to a movie. All the small things that make them seem like a normal couple.

It makes the days when his reckless anger is barely contained, the nights of shattered sleep, so much harder to bear. For every step forward, something will drag him back. He's never going to be a hundred per cent happy or healthy or well-adjusted. She has long since come to that conclusion, and she is prepared to live with that. Sealed some kind of bargain with herself, the day she kissed him, the night she took him as her lover.

They have never discussed the future, both aware of the fragile balance between them, still finding their way together, at the beginnings of something. And she is honest enough to admit that she does not want to push him, have to hear him speak so calmly of his desire to rip another human being open. Dares to hope that some day he will be able to come to some kind of terms with his past, may be able to acknowledge that there could be a better way. Truly fears that the only way to stop him may involve a dark and painful path for both of them...

...The plane bumps again, bad weather over the Wasatch Range, and she stifles a groan. She does so hate not being in control, of the movement and of herself. She can cope with all sorts of horrors on the ground, but air-travel upsets her.

He sighs theatrically. Waits.

"What?"

"No chance of joining the Mile High Club." he says, wicked grin.

"You're an animal." Luxury of being able to be all cross and pathetic. Puts her head on his shoulder. "Euww."

He settles her more comfortably. For the next few days, he does not need to worry about touching her, they can hold hands, be together without reservation. Plane jolts again, and his woman makes another little moan. He bites his lip and carefully does not laugh, soothes her as she grouches softly. Love is being ready with a barf-bag.

He's been to Colorado before, but only to Aspen. He has never been particularly fond of the cold. (Always though it was an accident that he'd been born in a landlocked state. Nature had designed him for lounging on a warm beach.) He hadn't been particularly enthusiastic about skiing, either. Or the majority of his wife's family and friends. But he'd still been trying to fit with the monied crowd, then, hadn't sneaked off to play cards with the chalet staff, or hang out with the reviled snowboarders. Social chameleon, adapting, adopting, _becoming_ the persona that was to serve him so well.

That persona is a tattered shadow at best, now, the gilt flaking off to reveal the cardboard. And he doesn't quite know what to replace it with.

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She hadn't quite believed he was serious about this trip, wondered if he would have second thoughts. But here they are. Watches him swing the case off the luggage carousel. One case, and that had been strange, too, packing their clothes together. More of his shirts have found their way into her closet, a spare pair of jeans, gradual encroachment.

Their double absence in the office shouldn't be so noticeable over a holiday. Neither of them quite ready to confront the issues of being completely public, finding their way carefully. Two cars, two places to live, two people gradually spiraling together, their lives beginning to entwine. Neither of them quite sure where they are going.

All around them, joyful reunions. She notices his attention stray, watches a man scooping up a small child of indeterminate gender. Little crease on his forehead, smooths it out when he realizes she is watching him.

That is something she is truly apprehensive about. He responds well to children, but she does worry about him, knows that it still hurts him deeply. Something so dark, that there aren't words. Wonders how exposure to her nephews will affect him, if he will be able to maintain his calm.

He looks uncertain now, almost unsure of himself, slightly awkward in his slacks and shirt, out of any comfort zone he knows. She watches him toning down the brash arrogance, dimming his brightness, projecting a more subdued charm...Small tug on his hand, and she makes him look at her. Reaches up and kisses his cheek.

"They're not an audience, they're my family." (Since when did he become so easy to read? He's supposed to be the enigmatic man of mystery.) "You don't have to...just be yourself, Patrick."

"Yeah, well..." That open distress in his face, looks away. What if they don't like who he really is? Whoever that actually is.

No suit, no tricks, no lies, nothing to hide behind. Nervous man, meeting his girlfriend's family for the first time.

"At least you only have one brother to deal with. And you got on okay with Sean..."

(Sean's on call. In one way, she's disappointed. He's good company, when he's not being an asshole. But the idea of Sean, Patrick and a number of small children together is actually quite nerve-shredding.)

"...and Dom is always busy this time of year."

Dominic is her middle brother, the one she doesn't often talk to. Or talk about. Jane had only found out about him from a photograph. And the outfit had been a bit of a shock.

("He's a priest?"

She had smiled at his expression. It's not often that Jane is surprised.

"Sean always tells people he left us for another guy. They _really_ didn't get on, growing up.")

Lisbon doesn't even want to think about those two ever meeting. She's only ever been a nominal Catholic, attending as a child because she had to. Once the reality of life took over, she had better things to occupy her mind, when there was a whole household to run. She does not mock the faith of others, simply has no time for it in her worldview, a slightly kinder one than Jane's sometimes cruel dismissal. His experience of 'faith' is a far more cynical one.

But she can see her brother waving through the crowd, and Jane has no choice but to obey the small hand tugging on his.

Niall gets his first proper look at the man Tree has finally admitted to seeing. Not at all what you would picture from Sean's airy description as a 'middle-aged widower', which is technically accurate, and somehow totally misleading. Knows who he is, of course, quite beside being a work colleague - (Sean had admitted to not having realized until afterwards) - Can't imagine how he'd be, if something happened to Sam or the boys. Still not quite prepared for the good-looking blond his sister is towing along. The guy looks almost like a movie star.

He also looks somewhat apprehensive, despite the smile. But Teresa draws him into introduction.

"Patrick, meet Niall. He's my _nice_ brother."

Bigger, blunter features than Sean, but the Lisbon grin, a firm handshake.

"Of course, you've met the gremlin, haven't you?"

There's a stability to Niall, a sense of sturdy self-reliance. Jane tries not to read, but it's what he does, automatic reflex. And there are things he knows, too, from what Teresa has (and hasn't) told him. Another one of the family who had to grow up too fast, supporting his sister with his own quiet strength.

Niall notes that his sister doesn't try and wrestle the case to the car, content to let her man manage. Which has to be a first. He's impressed.

Jane sits quietly, listening as the siblings catch up, drawing a mental map in his mind of who's who. Also notes that Lisbon...Teresa is less bossy with Niall. They are much nearer in age, though – this is the brother who took on the role of man of the house. Who took the brunt of the drunken rages. (Though it was Sean who had ended up in hospital, a factor in his future career.) Determined to be everything his own father stopped being. Not a man who will ever set the world on fire, but a decent, honest family man, who will never have cause to be ashamed of what he does for a living.

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It's a nice street, a good neighbourhood. Quiet, reasonably affluent, easy commute into the centre. Small family houses, neat lawns and smart cars. A little cookie-cutter, perhaps, but there's nothing wrong with peaceful domesticity. Jane still regards the house with trepidation.

She can't know quite how strange this is for him. He's lived in a lot of places, but an ordinary suburban home has never been one of them, not in his full memory. Far more likely to find a prayer meeting or a séance in the front room, growing up. Minivans and school runs and the nine to five are an alien world.

Turmoil behind the door, and a horde of children and dogs burst out to engulf them. The children fling themselves at Lisbon. The dogs fling themselves at Jane.

It's an effective ice-breaker, if rather hard on his jacket. The scrum eventually resolves itself into two small boys, and two slobbering hounds of indeterminate breed.

"Patrick, meet Michael, Daniel and the hounds of heck. Mikey, Dan, take Scooter and Dub out back, let the poor guy breathe, huh?" Niall grabs the more enthusiastic of the mutts, grins at Patrick. "Now, if you're lucky, Robbie will spit up on you, and you can have the full-on Lisbon experience."

His particular Lisbon is laughing at him, and he has to grin, himself. Not much left of his composure, in the face of a welcome like that. He finds that he doesn't mind, swept up the steps and into a house where maternal order battles against the forces of small boy, and is just about winning.

Samantha Lisbon is a sweet-faced woman with long light brown hair. She still looks remarkably fresh and together for the mother of three boys, the youngest of whom is riding on her hip, sucking a fist. A kind woman, trying very hard not to let him know that she knows who he is, what has happened to him. Obviously combines a terrifying efficiency with that sweet face, has the dogs corralled, the boys marshalled off for tea, in short order.

Jane, washing up in the bathroom, listens to the noise of the family downstairs, meets his own rather startled gaze in the glass. There is nothing dark or dreadful about this happy family, the house is full of love and decency. Warm and welcoming and eminently normal.

Little tap at the door.

"Uncle Patrick?" Small, clear voice. "Mom wants to know if you want ham salad or chicken?"

Uncle Patrick. Can he do this, can he be this man? Does he dare?

Takes a breath, and opens the door, grins at the boy. Oldest one. Michael.

"I'll eat anything that stays on my plate long enough."

Almost pauses in the doorway downstairs, because this is really not something he's used to. But Lisbon pushes a chair out, and Michael and Daniel have a little argument about who gets to sit next to the guest, and Sam is already hospitably dishing up something that smells good. Finds himself somewhere he never expected to be. In the middle of a comfortable family dinner, a happy mix of conversation around him, including him, part of a group, not centre of attention.

He's still not sure who he is now. But he's the man that Teresa Lisbon loves and trusts enough to bring here. And he really, really can't screw this up.


	20. I Never Promised You a RoseGarden III

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I Never Promised You a Rose-Garden (III)

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A house with three small children and two dogs in it wakes early. Jane opens one bemused eye, as his brain processes unfamiliar sounds.

There's nothing but a sleepy little growl from under the quilt, and deciding that his darling might be better woken later with care (and coffee), he goes off to shower, makes his way downstairs with unusual trepidation.

The kitchen is already a hive of activity. Outside the door to the laundry room, the dogs make a protest that they cannot get in. Michael and Daniel are absorbed in a welter of juice and cereal. Sam is already wrestling something that resembles a young pterodactyl into the oven. (Her parents and her sister's family will be joining them.) Niall, who has got most of Robbie's breakfast into him, gives him a cheery wave of a plastic spoon.

"Morning. Tree didn't keep you awake with her snoring, then?"

"I've...adapted." He'd slept surprisingly well, for him. Usually, a strange bed and uncertainty keep him wakeful. But a small, warm armful seems to be changing that. "I..."

The door-catch gives suddenly, and Scooter and Dub throw themselves at Jane again, convinced that all he needs to make his morning complete is a new covering of dog-hair and dribble. Juice gets turned over in the boys' attempt to be helpful, and Robbie starts grizzling. Even Sam is beginning to fray at the edges, scolding as she attempts to juggle mopping up, dogs and apologies.

"I'll deal with the poopmeister, darling." Niall drops a kiss on his wife, swings his smallest son up. "C'mon, stinker." Grimaces at Jane. "Sorry about this, we're not normally this hectic."

"It's fine." Jane grins back, finally gets a hold on Dub's collar. "Breakfast theatre. It could catch on. Really."

Doesn't really get a chance to sit down. Michael is nearly eight, and Daniel is five, and to them, he's another useful play-mate, and they don't see why he wants to spend time doing boring grown-up things like eating breakfast.

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Lisbon rolls over, finds the bed cold, and opens her eyes. Not too unusual an occurrence, though she realizes how far gone she is when she becomes impatient at the lack of coffee materializing. Laughs at herself, and stumbles sleepily off to wash. It would never do to let him know that he is becoming an indispensable part of her morning routine. That she wants him to be. Squashes that thought hastily.

When she gets downstairs, she finds his absence explained. He's been roped into playing soccer with the older boys. (The dogs are helping.)

Waves out of the window at him. He waves back, hands in a 't' shape, hopeful smile. She mimes an exaggerated eye-roll, grinning. She hopes he might actually let the boys win, but fears he won't.

Sam, up to her elbows in the sink, peeling potatoes, looks from the window to Teresa.

"He's very good with children...oh." She falters, blushes.

Always that awkwardness.

"We see so many dreadful things at work, it's nice to see kids who are just being happy." And to see him happy, too. (Absently, she's searching for the tea.)

"Morning, sis." Niall settles the newly clean and now placid Robbie back in his high-chair. "Oh, heck, are our monsters bothering him?"

"He's keeping them out from underfoot for me." Sam says, looking stricken. "He seemed quite keen when they asked him."

"Sometimes he has a mental age of six." Lisbon says dryly, smiles at her sister-in-law. "Just be forever grateful that we don't have Sean here as well."

"I think Gremlin might have some competition for the title of favourite uncle." Niall slings an arm round his sister's shoulders, watches her carefully dunking the tea-bag. "You're off the hard stuff in the mornings, now?"

"I..." Shuts her eyes, knows that he will never let her live this down. "Trust me, he's vile about his tea. I'm thinking of taking him out to Celestial Seasonings, and letting him loose to annoy them."

Niall grins, and merely obeys his wife's silent frown to refresh the coffee-pot.

Jane comes jogging back to the house, summoned by the waving of a mug. He doesn't look particularly distressed – slightly winded, but grinning hugely. Small shadows jostle at his heels, talking excitedly, vying for his attention.

It's not as hard as he thought it might be. Perhaps because they are boys. There is nothing to remind him of his daughter in the dark, sturdy little creatures who drag on his hands. Their wide hazel eyes and dark heads remind him rather more of the woman smiling sleepily at him over the table, warming her hands on her own mug of coffee.

Drops an apologetic kiss on her upturned face as he scoops up his tea.

"I was intending to pander to your caffeine addiction, sweetheart, but I got press-ganged."

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By mid-morning, and the run up to Dinner-time, the house is stretched to bursting point, two more children in the mix. A boy slightly older than Robbie, which just means that he can fling his food further, and a solemn little girl with glasses and poker-straight hair, aged between her cousins.

Not used to this many people just going about their lives. Frenetic activity of a crime scene, families ripped apart in various ways, aftermath and debris...Here, it is simply the clamour of voices, laughter and anecdote. Strange role reversal, he finds himself in a three-way discussion with Sam and her sister Jen over pie recipes. Lisbon is discussing guns with Jen's husband Carl, and Sam's father. But it suits them, and they don't care what anyone else thinks. Sam's mother might be a little inclined to purse her lips, but she turns out to be susceptible to the Jane charm, and can soon be heard imparting wisdom on the subject of peach cobbler.

Dinner is a triumphant parade of dishes. And if Jane doesn't take part in the Grace, he doesn't actively cause offence either, biting down on his tongue for once, mindful of hospitality, and the hand holding his under the edge of the table.

...In his mind, he remembers dimly, home-cooked meals around a large table, accents that were pure mountain, last time he had anything approaching a family, before they had to move on again. Nearest thing he ever had to a grandmother, Tullai's Gram...

Mid-afternoon, and Sean calls, with his usual litany of bizarre turkey-related mishaps, cheerfully teasing his sister about the lack of wild excitement to be had at Niall's...

"...Yeah, 'cos tonight Mr Party-animal is going to be sitting in his apartment, watching Pickle attempt to eat her own weight in kitty-treats..." Lisbon laughs down the phone. "...yeah, he's here...Patrick?"

Startled to be included, Jane takes the phone.

"_Happy Turkey Day. You've met the Stepford Lisbons now - how are you finding my lovely nephews?"_

"They're nice kids."

A laugh.

"_See if you still think they're nice kids when they come and sit on your head at five in the morning. In my absence, guess it's up to you to be the bad influence on them, I consider it our duty to save them from becoming as boringly conformist as my big brothers..."_

Lisbon isn't sure what Sean has just said, but she doesn't like that grin on Jane's face.

"_...oh, which reminds me, I told Dom that our sister has shacked up with some godless dabbler in dark and occult forces. He'll probably call to exorcise you later..."_

Jane is still sniggering when he repeats this piece of news. Lisbon rather dreads a verbal run-in between Dom and Patrick. He seems unconcerned.

"Meh. His Jesuit mind tricks won't work on me..." Waves his hand. "These aren't the 'droids..."

Niall nearly chokes on his drink, laughing.

Dom does call, but he has to break off the call to deal with an altercation between two of the homeless in the shelter where he's serving dinner before he has a chance to say much more than 'hello'.

Jane looks rather thoughtful for a while after.

The Lisbon siblings had hung together in the face of tragedy and the disintegration of their happy childhood. Dealt with it in different ways. Teresa seeks justice, answers, closure for those who have lost people, puts herself in harm's way for others, takes care of those in her charge. Niall seeks to be everything his own father stopped being. Dominic has found his own security, a benevolent father figure, idealization of an absent maternal archetype. Maybe he provides hope and comfort to those who choose to believe, but it seems that he also has a practical side. Sean does what he can for people in pain.

They bicker with each other, some of them don't get along as well as they could. Spread out over the width of the country, they don't see each other much, sporadic visits. But they are still a family.

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They leave the boys with their grandparents, to have a civilized evening out for the grown-ups...

...Teresa, slithering about on the ice, and he catches her before she follows her turkey down the marked lane, both of them clutching each other and laughing.

Patrick, face intent as he hefts his own turkey, lining up his shot, fierce concentration. She's entertained by the fact that he can be so insanely competitive, even when it involves slinging frozen poultry about. And, as usual with anything involving hand-eye co-ordination, he's pretty good.

It's loud and silly, and about as far from sophisticated as you can get, and it has to be some of the most fun he's had in a long time. He's just knocked a load of plastic pins down with a dead bird, and he feels good about it, because Teresa is flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him. For tonight, he's simply a man showing off to his admiring girlfriend. And the world doesn't end. He cannot and will not regret it – there is no man who could, seeing those eyes and that smile.

Niall watches his sister jumping up and down and squealing as Patrick gets a strike, the proud way he flings his arms up and grins at her. Hopes this guy will treat her the way she deserves. Thinks he will, by the way he drops a tender kiss onto her cold nose, scolds her into turning her collar up. Knows as well as anyone could, how little Tree needs protecting from anything, but it's still a good thing to see someone trying to take care of her for a change. The fact that she's letting him do it says a lot.

"Hey." Sam slips her hand into his. "Whatcha doing?"

"Watching them." Kisses his wife. "What do you think?"

"I think it could turn into something serious. He's the first guy she's dared let us meet."

"Well, this one isn't married..." Bites his lip. "Shit. Poor bastard." Instinctively, they cuddle closer. "I can't imagine..."

"Don't." She shivers. "Just don't, Ny."

Common consent, primal need, they want to get home, see their boys. The evening temperature is dropping fast, it doesn't take much to persuade the other two – it's considerably chillier than Sacramento, and neither of them are used to it.

"You're forgetting your roots, woman." Jane teases her, yelps when freezing hands find warm skin under his shirt.

Strolling back down Pearl Street. Part of the holiday crowd, and for a moment, Jane can truly feel part of it, too. The glass wall is shivering, cracking now, he's no longer apart from the world, observing it, he's drawn into the flow. Time is moving on, and he's moving with it. Not all the pain is bad.

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Thinks afterwards that perhaps it is his very dread of them that draws the nightmares to him, evil moths to the flame of his fear. Blood and blades and darkness, and he comes up out of it, reaching out to find his Teresa, alive and whole.

There have been a good few nights when she has held him, reassured him that she is there, she is safe. Talked him back into the now. He can never, will never tell her what he has seen in his nightmares, but she has seen the crime scene photos herself. This shattering pain in him is not new.

"I've had to bury everyone I've ever loved." Holding her so tightly, he's hurting her. "I can't do it again. I _won't."_

"Hush. Hush, darling...Patrick, let me breathe..." Struggles a little, until he releases her, only so far, caged in his arms. His eyes are still slightly wild, and she smoothes the damp hair back off his forehead. Watches his face move from that sleep-dazed fear to waking mortification.

Doesn't want to try and sleep again, wants to creep out into the night and hide himself. Feels like he's polluted this place, somehow. Hopes that this has just been one of his silent night terrors, and not one of the loud ones.

Even when she has slipped back into sleep, he lies staring into the dark, body taut with angry shame. How long will she endure this? How long must he?

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Wakes, gritty-eyed, stiff neck and sour mouth. Hears Sam shepherding the boys outside, cringes from her words.

"...Uncle Patrick isn't feeling well, you leave him be, 'kay?"

But five minutes later, a scuffling at the door, and then there's a knock. He can't face them, turns his head. Teresa slips out of bed, and he hears her talking softly, high-pitched agitated whispers. Almost flinches away, when she shakes his shoulder gently.

"Patrick?" Makes him sit up, see them.

Daniel, face solemn, hefting a lamp in his small hands, the cartoon shade askew and flex trailing. Michael, the spokesman.

"Mom said you had a bad dream last night, so we want you to have our light."

He's going to lose it completely, in front of this whole wonderful, lovely family, he can feel it. He manages a nod to Danny, who hands the precious night-light over, satisfied that he's done what he can, and Teresa shoos them gently out.

She looks at him, sitting there, with the ridiculous little lamp in his hands. Raises his head and looks back at her. Nothing to hide behind. Love and awe and laughter and the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

"They wanted to." she says. "Life's simple when you're that age."

He reaches one blind hand for her, drowning grip.

"I love you. Us. Together. But...children." he says, hoarsely. "I can't...not with - Him still out there."

Every day that passes, this bubble that he lives in, pretending that he can be normal, simply trying to live, day to day, because - looking back is an inferno of pain and guilt, but he can't look forward, for himself or for them. Not while the monster is still out there in the world, thorn in his mind, prickle of pain across his skin.

She stares at him. This house, this life around them...it isn't what she has ever thought of, ever planned for herself. She's never particularly wanted children of her own. It isn't that she dislikes them – she's quite capable of going soft and gooey over a small baby – but she has been on her own for so long, finds it quite strange enough adjusting to another adult in her life. Cannot see how she would ever manage her job together with the demands of a child.

Cannot see how she could manage the demands of her job and a child, and this terribly damaged man here in front of her.

But this mental leap to a future, even as he denies it... He does things to her, messes with her mind even when he doesn't mean to. Knows that he has gone too far, by the dawning look on his own face, at the blank shock on hers, but he doesn't let go of her hand. She tries to turn the conversation to a lighter place.

"Where did you ever get the idea that I might want another one of you?"

Some of the tension going out of him, but his face is still serious.

_He_ hadn't ever planned on children – his own utter disaster of an upbringing was no example, his father hardly a role model, he'd become so used to his unsettled existence, couldn't quite adjust to even having a home. Her announcement had terrified him, the ultimate move in the game, _their_ daughter's clear declaration of her new allegiance. And then – this little creature in his hands. Wonder and fear.

He can try to find a way back to love, but he had failed so utterly in the role of a father, he doesn't think he can ever dare to trust himself so far again.

She's watching him closely.

"I don't want anything but you." Tells him, with a quiet intensity that takes the breath out of him. "Just you, Patrick. We'll get through this together."

He doesn't quite trust his voice, just stretches out an arm, wordless gesture. She cuddles up, kisses him softly.

"They like you, you know. Not just the kids."

She moves to get up, and he tightens his arms.

"Just...a few minutes more. Please."

She settles back into his arms, and he just holds her warmth close, reassurance of life and love. 'Humble' has never been a word in his vocabulary, but he's...grateful.


	21. I Never Promised You a RoseGarden IV

-with thanks to lgmtreader-

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I Never Promised You a Rose-Garden (IV)

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Sam is shutting the front door, the receding noise of small voices.

"Carl is taking Lucy and the big boys out, and Robbie has a playdate with C.J. I thought we could all do with a quiet morning." Lowers her voice. "Is he...okay?"

"For now." Lisbon is frank. "But this isn't new. I'm so sorry, I should have said. We can go..."

"Don't even finish that sentence, Teresa Lisbon." There is pity in her face, for more than Jane. "Does this happen a lot?"

"Less than it used to. We thought we could risk it." A little shaky herself. "He's in so much pain, sometimes, and I don't quite know what to do to help him."

"I'm married to your brother, I know all about strong, silent and stubborn. Tell you what, you want to take the dogs out for a run, vent a little?" Smiles. "We'll leave the guys to grunt at each other in a manly fashion."

She isn't sure about leaving Jane, but Sam is used to dealing with the mulishness of the Lisbon family, and really, the temptation to talk to someone, another woman, is overwhelming.

She doesn't talk about herself, her feelings. Not quite as hostile as Jane to the thought of therapy, but she is a private person, always has been. (As a teenager, tongue-tied mutiny in the confessional, half her mind on the groceries and had she remembered to put the laundry on? God's love too far away, empty words that withered away in the face of harsh reality.) Most of her friends are in law enforcement, people she cannot reveal her relationship to, with all the repercussions. Besides, this is no longer merely her feelings, her pain, but his, too, and she will defend him fiercely, will not expose him, them, to the prurient curiosity or the pity of others. But here, there is nowhere to hide any longer. No need to hide. Nothing but gentle concern for them both. This isn't therapy, this is – family. She takes a breath, lets it go.

"I think I'd like that."

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Jane really wants his suit. Wants to be able to put on that practised shell. Feeling raw and exposed and hideously ashamed of himself. Can't even meet his own eyes in the mirror this morning as he shaves.

Rather dreads facing Sam, who will be torn between treating him as if he were Michael, and trying not to treat him any differently. Aware that he wants to snap out barbed comments, prevent anyone seeing that frightened, pathetic inner self he keeps hidden, that now seems intent on breaking free. No way to assert his usual measure of control over this situation, can't use any of his normal techniques to distance people. Does not normally concern himself with such things, but Lisbon is so very important to him, that everything that is important to her is making a way into his life, his thoughts and heart. And these people are fundamentally kind and decent, nothing of the ghoul about them, and he can't hide from them any longer.

Tense with embarrassment, he manages a small tight smile in the face of Niall's quiet greeting.

"Jen's turn to have the kids this morning. And the dogs have taken the girls for a brisk walk."

Jane's smile widens a little at the appropriate phrasing of that. Relaxes slightly. Niall, as easy to read as his sister, same strength and unflinching honesty. Won't pretend there's nothing wrong, but respectful of his privacy.

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Sitting with tea, in the room that is Niall's 'den'. Basically, a small office cum sitting room that is supposedly a dog and child-free zone. (There's a discarded chew-bone under the desk, a couple of stray pieces of lego, a wobbly painting on the cork board amongst the bills.)

His work space had always been very cool, very serene, designer furniture, slimline laptop. His business manager had ruined a very expensive pair of pants sitting on a discarded candy once, so the door was always kept shut after that. That memory comes smashing out of nowhere. No, that sterile stage-set is no loss, shameful reminder. Prefers a shabby brown couch, scarred wooden desk, the hum of people around him...

"Are you serious about her?"

He finds he's been waiting for this. Puts his cup down with a steady hand.

"Yes." Doesn't need to think twice about that. "But...we have some issues to sort out."

Not going to elaborate. Not bringing that into this house, bad enough that it has touched them as it has. Niall simply nods.

"Smash a bottle near any of us sometime." Something flickers in the back of his eyes for a moment. (A glass knocked off the counter, once. Lisbon's face, rigid for one instant.) "She's serious about you."

"She'd have to be." Words come unbidden. Gives a slightly twisted smile. "She deserves better."

"But she wants you. So you better step up." Niall points. "She's also got brothers. Remember that."

He never thought he'd be so happy to be politely threatened. They exchange wry grins, both aware that Lisbon alone could take him to pieces any time she chose to do so.

Niall is all the things he is not. Reliable, steady, decent, honest. Husband. Father.

And - it's a long time since he had male friends. It had taken surprisingly little to shed his old life, so many people who had dropped away. Unclean, pariah, nobody wanted the taint to touch their lives, his fall from grace terrifying. 'Rehab' would have been acceptable, the euphemisms of 'stress' and 'exhaustion', but an utter catatonic breakdown – he did not live in a milieu that had time for sympathy, and once he flew over the cuckoo's nest, his absence had excised him cleanly from that world. He is friendly with Cho and Rigsby, they have got under his guard a little, but there is an element of restraint, a lack of openness – too many problems in discussing relationships, for obvious reasons.

To just sit, chat about sports, tv, everything and nothing – hasn't even realized that he has missed it. No bragging about top billing, percentages, name-dropping and the whole shabby glamour. It's a chance to simply be...himself. And this version might be able to be a better man than he was before.

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She feels...lighter. Being able to voice some of the fear and frustration to someone – well, she understands confession, after all. Not that she has shared some things. There are things (dark, violent, primitive) that are not for anyone else but the two of them. But the everyday aggravations, male stubbornness and her purely female concerns about where they are going...those she can share.

For the first time, she states out loud that she wants a future with him. Something she has discovered in herself, and not dared to admit to or share before. Nothing but nebulous intent, no idea how they will work it out, if they can. But she wants something with him, even if it will never be the white picket fence and this gentle suburban existence. She's a big city girl and a born cop, and he's...him, after all.

The house is ominously quiet (at least until the dogs are let free) and the washing-up pixie has been conspicuously absent in the kitchen. Muffled thump of some form of beat, odd electronic noises. Sam looks around, and sighs.

"Oh, dear. I was afraid of this..." Beckons Lisbon down the hall, and they peer round the door.

Jane, hunched on his chair, engaged in ferocious competition on a games console with the similarly crouched Niall. Male bonding at its very finest. Soda, chips and a chance to slaughter innocent pixels. Bless them. Something explodes, and Jane whoops. Lisbon has to laugh. He gives a wide, delighted grin, but doesn't turn his head.

"I'm going to beat Niall's hi-score." He says, with deep satisfaction. "We _have_ to get one of these things."

"You've created a monster." Lisbon tells her brother, who merely growls, intent on retaining his supremacy.

Jane has lost some of the tension around his mouth, though his eyes show the effect of a rough night. She realizes with a pang how much healthier he has been looking, that this reversion is so obvious. But the grin is infectious, unforced.

"I will kick your ass at it." She promises him.

"Bring it on, woman...argh! Bastard!"

"Eat it, dude..." Niall's smirk falters, "oh, crap...."

Sam shakes her head, fond resignation.

"They don't ever grow up, do they?"

"Considering you have...argh...the second hi-score on here..." Jane breaks off, as something violent happens on screen.

"I let her win..." Niall says, deliberate and cheerful provocation.

"Right, you are sooo dead, mister..." Sam marches in. "New game, and we'll kick your butts."

The washing-up does not get done.

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When the boys are delivered back, they have no doubts about their welcome, blithe assurance in them as they impart garbled and self-important versions of their morning. Lucy is with them, disconcertingly direct stare through those glasses. Then a gappy smile, and a third voice joining in. Jane actually seems to be following the chatter, nodding carefully.

Lisbon herself retreats from the kitchen, and the struggle to get food applied internally, rather than externally, to Robbie and C.J. She likes her smallest nephews, but not enough to watch that. (And she's not helping Niall with the washing-up, either.) And she's not sure about the wisdom of leaving Carl and Jane to talk to each other. Not a lot in common, and Carl can be a little tactless at times. There tend to be jovial comments about her biological clock, and she doesn't want that repeated in front of Jane, not today. Not sure how he's going to be handling the children anyway.

However, it turns out that all the kids old enough to be out of high-chairs are young enough to be totally entranced by a few simple magic tricks. Lisbon is persuaded to be his 'lovely assistant'. Lucy frowns.

"Why does Aunt Tree have to be the assistant? Why can't she be the magician?"

"It's a secret." He beckons her close, leans forward. "She's the one who really makes sure that the magic works. Without her, I'm just a silly man showing off."

He can see Lisbon biting back a laugh, eyes shining, grins at her.

Simple, harmless little tricks, reaching back over the years to remember, some of the very first things he learnt, cards and coins and toothpicks. Slightly disconcerting to think that he was the same age as them, the first time he had performed in public. Playing then, not realizing what he did, his father's assistant. But this is clean and innocent, and afterwards, the kids sit at the table with their sandwiches, and Michael informs his father that he doesn't want to be a pirate when he grows up, he wants to be a magician like Uncle Patrick.

_(...though, twenty years later, it will be an illusionist who calls herself Lux Diamond who will win awards...)_

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He's survived another day. Now he has to face the night.

He has debated over the pills. He doesn't like to take them, they slow his mind, blur the edges of a world already under siege, new experiences and old emotions. Packs them whenever he travels, but denies them, his penance. But he no longer has only himself to consider. He can punish himself, but others do not deserve to suffer through it. She watches him, the little shrug, the grimace as he knocks them back. But she holds him, then, fingers tracing idle patterns on his shoulderblade as he drifts...

Brave show of the little lamp in the corner of the room, a beacon of innocent belief, dim glow touching the contours of their faces.

In sleep, they turn to each other, will wake tangled gently together. She has grown used to being engulfed by his body, her own petite frame folding into his arms. Defiance now in the way she drapes herself, leg and arm, barrier against whatever would harm him. If she could march into his dreams, battle his demons, she would. He holds her, beast in the cage quiet, knowing its mate to be safe.

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Vile, insistent, evil ringing of the phone. A pale arm reaches out from under the covers, pats about to locate the offending object. Lisbon sits up, blears at the screen.

"Sir?"

"_... Lisbon?"_

"Yes, sir."

"_I am not going to ask you why you have Jane's cell at this time in the morning. I am sure that I wouldn't like any answer that you could possibly give me."_

She stares at the phone as if it's bitten her. Oh, crap. Puts her face in her hand and groans. The quilt beside her hunches slightly, and a sweetly dishevelled blond head appears.

"Hmm?"

Wide green eyes look at him through her fingers.

"Minelli. On your phone."

"Whoops." His amused grin fades at the sight of her distress. He takes the phone out of her nerveless fingers.

"Virgil, what can I do for you this morning?" His tone is all cheerful business, but an arm snakes out, prevents her escaping, "Colorado, we're flying back tomorrow. They will just have to start without us...just think, it gives them a chance to find out how indispensable I am..." Pulls the phone away and looks at it. "He hung up."

"Oh, hell..." She chews her lip.

"Don't look so tragic, sweetheart. It was only a matter of time." He seems remarkably unbothered, either by their discovery, or by whatever the case was. She doesn't know which one to fret about first. "Too far away to be our problem. Any of it."

"It's going to be awkward..."

Actually, he's furious. The world intruding in on their time away, causing that little line of worry to appear between her beautiful eyes again. Rolls over suddenly, pinning her beneath him.

"Not giving you up." He says against her skin. "Mine."

She pulls his head out of her cleavage by his ears.

"I'm serious."

"So am I." Settles on his elbows, nose to nose. Gentle smile, but his eyes intent. Soft kisses to punctuate his words. "We are entitled to a private life. And we are not responsible for solving every crime in California. I mean, I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good."

Making her smile in spite of herself. The sheer arrogance of the man. Sensing that he is winning the argument, he starts to kiss her more deeply...

Scuttering outside the door.

"Uncle _Pa-_trick?..."

He rests his head into her shoulder with a quiet groan. She laughs.

"Uncle Sean has definitely lost his title. Go deal with your adoring public."

"Can't _you_ adore me?"

She smoothes back his curls, kisses his nose.

"I do." She admits. "Now go play. And get me some coffee."

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Minelli stares at the handset with seriously mixed emotions.

It's not unreasonable for Jane to not be at the beck and call of the CBI 24/7. The man is not an agent, there is no legislation, nothing in his contract to say that he cannot be with whoever he wishes. But the inevitable has happened, and Minelli really didn't want to ever have to know about it.

He's been trying not to notice, doesn't wish to have to take notice. It isn't even that he disapproves of the relationship, totally – unguarded moments when he has seen them look at each other, and nobody could doubt that the slick, cynical Patrick Jane has lost whatever battered remnants of his heart remain. Somehow, together, they are stronger, a team, their unorthodox working relationship producing results. It is simply that Teresa Lisbon is only human, has only a finite amount of strength, and she will push herself beyond all limits for him. The balancing act – is she strong enough to draw Jane back from the brink, or will he take them both over? On past showing, that persuasive charm is winning, and Minelli knows that the man is not rational on certain topics, that however much he may truly care for Lisbon, his judgement is unsound. And that Lisbon can be wilfully blind to danger when she is intent on saving him.

He does find the thought that she has taken that erratic personality to a family gathering rather surreal. Much easier to think of Jane doing something insane and life-threatening than anything as normal as sitting down to a family dinner. Because Virgil Minelli remembers the haunted wreckage who had first come to the CBI, forcing his way in with a savage, charming persistence. He has his own reasons for letting the man work with them, for allowing him leeway, his own balancing act, navigating between policies and obligations.

With the long holiday weekend, the CBI offices are manned by the unclubbable, the anti-social and the unlucky on whom the lottery has fallen, quite often due to junior status. So Grace Van Pelt is at her desk, again. She likes Thanksgiving, her family. She would really have liked the chance to visit. Not that she begrudges Lisbon a vacation – she has rarely known the woman to take a day off in the time she has been at the CBI. Cho had offered to trade, but his mother had cornered him with family obligations. Rigsby's on call, but out on a barbecue with some of his buddies. One slightly wistful glance, and he'd shifted awkwardly by her desk, before he ran away. So she's not happy, on many levels. Shoots an irritated glance at the empty couch. It's far too quiet without Jane, and experience has taught them all that his absence can often have disturbing consequences.

Sam Bosco puts a cup of coffee down on her desk, makes her jump. But he gives her a smile.

"Agent Van Pelt. You drew the short straw this time?"

"I'm used to it." Flushes. "I mean...being the rookie, and all."

"You've been here over a year. I hardly think you still count as a rookie."

Walks over, and sits down on the couch. Van Pelt blinks. They are so used to thinking of it as Jane's couch. Strange to see someone else sitting there, regarding the knitted comforter and the esoteric collection of paperbacks with a quizzical eye. Half-played chess game left on the desk. It doesn't look like a professional work space.

Everyone knows that the two men do not like each other. Most of them have an idea of why. And a select few suspect exactly how justified Bosco's dislike is...

Minelli winces inwardly when he sees him sitting there. But the work comes first, and whilst nobody else voices knowledge of the situation, he can ignore it. Speaks to Van Pelt.

"Call what we have of the team in. Sounds like the holiday cheer ran out for someone near Rocklin. I guess I'll have to call in Cochrane..."

"I can ride herd on this one." Bosco says, abruptly. "Hold the fort until Teresa gets back." Quick smile and nod to Van Pelt. "She's trained her team well."

Minelli eyes him narrowly. Bosco is a good agent, though, and _his_ training was a big part of Lisbon's early success. And, most importantly, he's _here_, which gives him a distinct advantage. Reluctant, he nods.

Van Pelt can see one outstanding problem looming here, and in her innocence, has to voice it.

"Sir, what about...?" Stops, suddenly, horribly, unsure of where that sentence is going.

Minelli looks rather sour. (That transparent honesty. She's going to have to learn to curb that.)

"He's in Colorado."

Damn. He should have been less specific. Because Bosco looks like someone has handed him his own liver. And Van Pelt ducks her head.

It isn't against the letter of the law for Jane and Lisbon to be together. They haven't flaunted it, but the team have suspected for a while. One of the open secrets in their little world. The romantic part of her is thrilled, hopeful they can be happy. The human part is jealous and miserable. She's stuck here at her desk, stuck with procedure and paperwork and an awkward office crush.

Oh, she knows that every circumstance is different. She could choose to ignore the rules, but she wants to impress, to succeed. _She_ has to decide if she wants to explore the possibilities of Rigsby's crush being anything more, with all the implications for their work, or their friendship. And she likes her job. She is ambitious. Would like to make Senior Agent by the time she's thirty.

But the fact that they have gone away together, a family occasion...

Bosco swallows unexpected bile. He knows the significance of the location. (So does the red-headed agent, by her expression.) How could she be so blind? So stupid? He'd thought she was smarter than that, hoped that all the rumours, all his fears were wrong. All that promise, thrown away on that...batshit crazy bastard.

Three very uncomfortable people. But Minelli has been a political animal nearly as long as he's been a cop, catches Bosco's eye. The other man, also a shrewd mover, holds his gaze a moment, sick anger in him. But then he simply turns to Van Pelt.

"Call Rigsby in, and I'll call in Sperro from my team. She's not got your IT smarts, but she's got a few more years forensic experience." An unexpectedly charming smile. "We'll try some old-fashioned police work on this one, huh?"

Dedication and ambition. He can see it in her, the way he saw it in young Teresa Lisbon. Perhaps they can be useful to each other.

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She is able to accept the idea of cases happening without her, has long since come to terms with the fact that she cannot save everybody, however much she would like to, but their own personal situation worries her. Jane will not allow her to fret about it, though, points out with what she has to admit to be perfect truth, that a great number of people had suspected something was going on long before they even admitted it themselves, so it won't be a shock. Forced to admit to herself that she would be glad to be able to be open about them as a couple. (Guilty thought that it might give him the impetus to move forward, too.)

They have a leisurely family brunch at the Dushanbe Tea House. Both Sam and Niall are entertained by the fact that the service becomes quite attentive once Patrick turns on the charm. Even more entertained by Teresa's mix of indulgence and hidden irritation. She turns to Sam.

"Honestly, he'll flirt with _anyone_ to get a decent cup of tea."

"It works." Inhales the steam, with a beautific smile, eyes closed. "You need to cut back on the caffeine, woman. It makes you grouchy. Besides," opens his eyes, "only _you_ make me perfect tea."

Niall, mindful of his copy-cat children, does not mime throwing up, but does snigger at his sister, who is actually blushing.

They walk through the park, along the creek, for a while afterwards. She and Sam have Rob between them, his wobbly little steps slowing their pace. Ahead of them, the menfolk are dealing with the havoc that the usual combination of small boys and sticks can provoke. Michael has asserted the right of a big brother to first dibs on a piggy-back from his father, and Daniel is on the verge of an outburst. Jane crouches down.

"Will I do instead?"

Daniel nods eagerly, tantrum forgotten. Uncle Patrick is _nice_.

This is a moment she really wants to remember. A short, sweet glimpse of life as it could be. And Patrick, smiling back at her, fond resignation in his face as he is swarmed by an excited and muddy child, hefting the slight weight up.

A solid warm little body, stranglehold of small arms. You don't forget.

His jacket is never going to be the same after this visit. He's not sure he will be, either. The growing conviction in him, that he's got more than one Lisbon on his side now. A whole clan are closing in around him. Family.

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Later in the afternoon, and nap-time has worn off, but the weather has closed in, so they're watching a movie. 'Jurassic Park', and the fat thief has just been pounced on by the little dinosaurs. There is some masculine whispering and sniggering going on, sideways looks. Michael snitches.

"Uncle Patrick says you're like that." he says. "All small and cute, and then you get all mad and bite."

"Do you bite him?" Daniel asks, with interest.

"Maybe later." she mutters, glares at Jane. He tries to look appropriately terrified. Niall is choking with laughter, and she knows that this will be passed onto Sean. She can foresee a future of 'T-Rex' jokes before her.

"Told you, I _like_ dinosaurs." Grins, whispers in her ear. "So, _are_ you going to bite me?"

Her teeth graze his earlobe, playful little nip that bypasses his brain.

"grr..."

"Luckily, the T-Rex is ticklish..."

She squeals, laughing protest. Agent Lisbon can put a man twice his size out flat, but Teresa the woman puts up a rather unconvincing show of resistance. Unfortunately, this seems to be a trigger for the boys to want to play dinosaurs, too, and the movie is neglected in favour of jumping and yelling and general mayhem...

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"I had forgotten how exhausting small children can be." He speaks without anything but amusement in his voice, and she stares at him. A frank gaze back, weary but oddly peaceful. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Letting me in."

"It works both ways." Smiling back him. "Lisbons come in packs, you know."

Niall and Sam have insisted that they have an evening to themselves, recommended a good restaurant. Not something they have a lot of time for. Most of their eating out is communal, after a case. To be out as a proper couple is rare.

Looks across the table at her, happily chasing the last of her crème brulee around her dish.

"I'm not giving this up." he says suddenly. She looks up, startled, and dab of cream on her lower lip. He reaches out a thumb, allows the gesture to linger. "I'm not giving you up."

Tip of her tongue retrieves the stolen cream. Her eyes dark, and a mix of worry and laughter.

"I'm not giving you up either." And she means it. She will fight more than bureaucracy for him.

Sparking between them, desire and affection and all the things they have, that they will not relinquish. He stretches a hand across the table, and she links her fingers with his. Prepared to fight, now. Prepared to dare the world.

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Sunday morning, and the family go to church. Teresa doesn't, claims that they need to pack since they are leaving after lunch, a graceful get-out clause before Jane can be offensive.

Predictably, the packing does not proceed very far once the car has left the driveway.

The bedroom door shuts behind her.

"No small children in the house any more..." he says, meaningful.

Deliberately, elaborate unconcern, she continues to pack, bends over the case.

"I'm busy."

His lips at her throat, and his hands roam, hard and confident, sliding her jeans down with determination. She grins, arches her back. Neither of them in the mood for gentle seduction this morning, if he wants to be primal, she's happy to oblige. Sometimes, she wants to be caressed and worshipped. Sometimes, she just wants him.

"I really hope you brought protection with us about now..."

His frustrated pause is just long enough before she waves her fingers at him, prize between them.

"Do not tease me like that, woman." Growls. "Awful things will happen to you."

"I'm counting on it."

"This Thanksgiving I am extremely thankful for lapsed Catholics with filthy minds and peachy little bottoms..."

Sliding his hand down her thigh, coaxing her knee up onto the bed, and she's already anticipating him, ready, grinding that delectable bottom back against him. He doesn't even bother to take off her top, simply pushes her bra up out of the way, his hands cupping her breasts, as he moves urgently inside her, breath hot on the back of her neck. Something particularly exciting in the thought that so many other people are engaged in a very different form of worship. Bites her lip, relishing the feel of him, laughing as he makes her cry out in pure pleasure, his own groan.

"Good thing the house is empty." he pants, "You are a very noisy woman."

"Your fault. And I wasn't the one grunting." She teases him. "You really are an animal."

"Didn't want to wait until we got home to our own bed."

Her breath catches a little, as she turns in his arms. He looks down at her, blinks as he processes his own words. Realizes the truth of them. When he thinks of home, now, it is that crowded, chaotic little apartment. She tangles her fingers in his hair, eyes wide with surprise and suppressed laughter.

"You didn't want to wait at all." He still has his jeans and underwear round his ankles, and she really has to laugh. Gives her a crooked little grin, tumbles her back on to the bed where he can kiss her deeply and properly. Been on his best behaviour for what seems like eternity, and he wants her to know, to understand, that she is his. They may have to go back to face all sorts of trouble, but they will face it together, and if anyone tries to take her away from him, he will fight.

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Genuine affection in the farewells, whole family waving them off, and in some ways, he's very sorry to be leaving it all behind. Even manages some adult conversation in the car with Niall, though he is still a little dazed.

He feels like he has reclaimed something in himself, not completely sure how else to explain it. Another subtle internal shift, no longer quite so hollow. The beginnings of new memories, new experiences. Some of it hurts like hell, but he can live with the pain. He'll live through the pain.

The flight home is quiet, and Teresa is able to catch a little sleep. He's going to have to start thinking of her as Lisbon again, remember not to call her 'sweetheart' in public. Though it seems that the need for secrecy might well be at an end, depending on how Minelli chooses to handle the situation.

He's not worried about censure in the workplace. What can they do, after all? It really isn't anybody else's business. He's spent the last couple of years bending the rules, creating his own brand of havoc, whilst she tried to control him – they haven't changed, just because they are in love. In a relationship. But the fact that it will be known, acknowledged, accepted...Brings its own worries, its own fears, but no shame.

He's terrified of happiness, that he does not deserve it for himself. But he finds that he can be happy, with her, because of her. And he wants to be able to think of a future. Just a small, cautious future at the moment, to simply be able to be with her, one day at a time.

He could give up his room at the hotel. He barely spends any time there any more, has even left a late poker game and driven across town to sneak into bed, to be greeted with a grumble and a protest, and warm limbs wrapped round him. He could give up the room, and move in with her.

Thought is there in his mind. And there is no thunderbolt. The world doesn't crack around him.

Rests his cheek against the dark head nestled on his shoulder. He could be with her, to protect her, to know that she is safe. Closes his own eyes, and dares to dream. He'll discuss it with her. Ask her. When they get - home.


End file.
